Between Ticks: On the Ledge of My Own Becoming

It’s 0800H on a Wednesday in December. The bright morning sun streams into my room, reminding me that I’ve already spent a year in this shared rental. It’s strange how quickly time passes, how fleeting these moments truly feel. And as that same sunlight touches my desk, it also presses a heavier truth upon me: I have only one more year left. One last year as a student.

These days, dragging myself to the desk comes easily. I’ve been waking up at 0600H like clockwork, my sleep schedule annoyingly almost too perfect. Still, I carry a small debt of lost hours, sleep I owe myself, time I’ll need to reclaim. Preparing to write about time, I feel an unexpected wave of emotions wash over me: memories, regrets, loss. Yet I welcome them like old companions. Pain, after all, has always been a muse.

Some would say I’m overthinking this, that my struggle is insignificant. But everyone has their demons, and mine has been draining me drop by drop for five long years. Today, I face it head on.

I’ve always feared time. It’s my most relentless enemy. During that hesitant argument with my mother about entering medical school, the idea of losing precious time loomed largest. I don’t recall every detail of that conversation, but I remember my mind racing, the single thought that overshadowed all others: I couldn’t afford to lose the time I needed for my passion. Years of composing music taught me that creativity demands patience and room to breathe, and time is its lifeblood.

I never truly knew what I wanted to be. A doctor? An engineer? A psychologist? A photographer? A musician? I couldn’t decide. But I knew music had to remain. It was my one constant, an anchor I refused to surrender.

People, my mother included, questioned my worry over time. They said I had every opportunity and resource, why fret over something so intangible? They didn’t understand. I’m here now, preparing to step into a doctor’s shoes when the time comes, and perhaps that’s fine. Still, beneath the white coat and stethoscope, something vital is gone. The dreamer, the musician, the spirit full of fire, it’s all but unrecognisable now.

I’ve sensed myself slipping away for years. Some might call this growth, insisting I’ve outgrown the sheltered boy I once was. But standing at this cliff’s edge, I see the cost so clearly. I can’t get back what I’ve lost.

Sometimes I feel a deep, aching sorrow for who I used to be, but a hard truth has settled in: I can’t rewind the clock. I can only move forward. Life won’t wait, and neither will time.

There was a moment, years ago, when one wrong step could have shaped everything. Even now, I’m unsure if I chose correctly. Logically, I made the right call. I’ve seen what happens to those who chase pure creativity, predators abound, survival is uncertain. Could I have thrived in that world? In Malaysia, would my art have found its place? Perhaps I was clinging to a pipe dream all along.

Yet logic doesn’t ease my unrest. If I made the practical choice, why do I still feel so uneasy? I stare at my monitor, wondering if I could have done something differently, chosen a path that brought greater peace. It’s as if my heart and mind are locked in conflict, leaving me stranded in the middle.

I’m exhausted. Years of fighting myself, of trying to be a proper medical student while burying my own aspirations, have taken their toll. I’ve tried to manage my time, to balance studying and art. In the best conditions, I managed, but as medicine demanded more, it devoured my days. I once stood at the top of my class, but at what cost?

My life itself.

I couldn’t accept that. So I tried to adjust, to give my art some breathing room again. I wanted to stay competent in medicine while preserving a piece of myself. But life can be cruel. My academic edge dulled, and I still found no time for who I truly am.

Every year, I’ve attempted something new, only to watch my hopes crumble. And now, as time’s ticking grows louder, I face another daunting ledge. Each decision feels heavier, each moment more precious. Perhaps it’s fear that drove me to write these words, to salvage something from the wreckage and use it as a springboard. Maybe I can transform these failures into something meaningful. There’s a Netflix series that sparked this idea, but that’s a story for another day.

I’m learning that time cuts both ways. It can bring regret, but also wisdom. It shows me what went right, what failed, and how I might carry on, armed with lessons I lacked before.

Maybe that’s time’s gift: it forces us onward, heedless of our pleas to pause. And perhaps that’s not entirely cruel. Maybe it’s a call to keep learning, to find meaning in what remains. I can’t reclaim who I was, nor can I guarantee the future’s shape. But I’m still here, capable of change, free to redefine what truly matters.

In the end, I might never resolve the tension between who I am and who I longed to be. But I’ve learned it’s possible to carry both the longing and the acceptance, the loss and the wisdom, side by side. Time waits for no one, and I’ll make the most of what’s left.