Oil is the most Lovecraftian thing that actually exists. You're telling me that there's a black ichor under the earth, made from the ancient dead, whose burning can realize all the dreams of man but only at the price of slowly returning the earth to its primordial state?
Time sneaks up on you, not like a thief, but like a ghost haunting the corners of your ambition. In your 20s, you sprint on dreams and late nights, fueled by the illusion of endless tomorrows. But what no one tells you is that those tomorrows start feeling borrowed—like time is a currency set to inflate beyond your reach.
Your body begins to whisper doubts about those all-nighters and skipped meals. Friendships evolve from shout-outs to quiet loyalty, and love? It weaves itself into a tender ache, complex and demanding.
Here's the kicker: purpose becomes the real hunt. It's not about chasing what you want; it's about discovering who you are when the chase ends. And the irony? Your 20-year-old self could never imagine how every choice etches a tattoo on your soul, visible only years down the road.
The gap between dream and reality narrows, not as a prison, but as an unexpected mirror. Don't just spend your youth—invest it. You'll thank me when the rearview holds more than shadows.