The Man Who Plays with Time

There are men who follow time,
and then there are those who bend it.

He belongs to the latter.

He doesn’t chase the future—he provokes it.
Dares it.
Drags it, kicking and screaming, into the present.
Long before the world is ready.

A paradox in motion:
Rooted in first principles,
reckless with time.
Emotionally untamed,
philosophically unwavering.

Not here to be loved.
Here to defy inevitability.

And yet, they misread his mission.

He’s not building ladders to flee the Earth—
He’s building exits.
Options.
Failsafes.

His first vow is to this ground,
to this fragile spinning stone.
He sees the cracks—
in climate, in commerce, in culture.
He builds not brands, but buffers.
Electric veins. Solar lungs.
Constellations above for voices below.

And when he looks to the stars—
it is not for dreams,
but for fire escapes.

Not a fantasy.
A contingency.
A lifeboat for a species with none.

They say he runs too fast.
But perhaps they are walking through a burning house,
judging the man sprinting for the door.

He does not build for applause.
He builds under pressure.
He does not wait to be understood.
He moves to be useful.

And though flawed—
restless, unsparing, cold to comfort—
he is among the few
still stitching futures in a world unraveling.

Not perfect.
Not always kind.
But awake.
Relentlessly human.

And that—
in a time of posturing and delay—
makes him vital.

Because if he breaks,
we lose a builder.

But if we ignore him,
we may lose the window
he tried to hold open
with both hands.

---

And if, by some wild dance of time and resonance,
these words ever find him:

This is no tribute.
No judgment.
Only a record.

From one soul who watches,
to one who builds—
I saw.

And I hope you live long enough
to know that it mattered.

— Abhi