Change - Matilda Nedyalkov 9S - Autumn Competition 2018 (Winner)

My mother once told me that there is no greater enemy than time.

It swallows up everything in its path, tears through kingdoms without so much as a sign of regard for the destruction it causes, ravaging through field upon field and wrenching brothers apart. Time is when the first lone horseman arrives on the horizon, declaring a message of war. It bites through the toughest of holdings, the most well-kept secrets, the strings keeping empires together, until nothing is heard but the deadly sound of silence – but it is not silence, my mother told me. It is waiting, and waiting is something that time does not abide by, for time does not wait for any man. Time is the weapon that tears apart the fresh rosiness of youth and turns it into something twisted, the crooked spines of the old crones, the rotting teeth of the ancient women that look at you from their doorways, their surroundings shrouded in shadows.

My father once told me that there is no sweeter lover than time.

It brushes past everything with its grace, turning the most beautiful sights into things that are women from dreams and stardust, stealing the breath of people as their mortal eyes lay sight upon them. Time whispers comforting words into your ears when you feel as if there is nothing good left in this world, when all the lights have gone out and you have been cloaked in all but darkness. It melts together the broken bonds of brothers that are torn apart, relieves disputes and remains there as a peacekeeper, a sign of remembrance. Time is the saviour that lets the children of enemies look each other in the eye and share no ill thoughts, the saviour that holds out an olive branch and lets you release a breath from deep within, filled with the relief that the war has ended.

My grandmother once told me that there is no more cunning god than time.

It tricks you into believing that all is well, that all these old wounds have healed, even as you stare at the graves of those who dared to be. Time is the god that you bow before, and you feel its glory radiating off it, but no matter how many times you call for it, it never comes. Time is not a god that comes when you call, for it hears no screams when humanity crawls to its feet, begging for mercy from time’s tremendous force. It is the blood-red of dawn and the chill you feel when you hear the rattle of the wind pass through a window that you thought you’d closed, the voice you hear when you call out, but receive no answer.

I discovered that time is all of these things, for as I place my hands on the cold stone, I hear their voices. Some of them are reassuring, other more violent. But they are all victims of time, whether they are sinners or saints or monsters or men, for time does not discriminate. Time takes everyone, and no matter how you picture it, time is not an enemy, nor is it a lover. Time isn’t even a god, for time is nothing but ashes in a burnt-out fireplace.

Time is gone, and with it, humanity.