Most hours die quiet.
You don’t even notice the body count.
Eight hours in a cubicle.
Dead.
A week of errands.
Dead.
Another year saying “fine” when you weren’t.
Dead.
You’ve buried more time
than you’ve lived.
But then—
there are the other hours.
The night you said too much
and everything changed.
The morning you touched someone
like they were scripture.
The hour you made something
that still breathes without you.
Those hours don’t die.
They haunt.
They echo.
They become proof
you were here.
And somewhere,
Johnny Cash rasps through the speakers—
what have I become, my sweetest friend?
That’s the cut.
The reminder.
You don’t get to choose how long you live.
You only get to choose
which hours survive you.
(Close your eyes.
Remember the one hour
you’d trade a lifetime to feel again.)
So ask yourself—
are you building days that matter
or wasting them
in borrowed time?
Because most hours dissolve.
But the right ones outlive you.
And one day,
when your clock runs dry,
you’ll realize
the only immortality you ever had
was how you spent your minutes.
The question isn’t
how many hours you’ve lived.
It’s how many
will follow you into the dark.
// Scorpio Veil