Clockwork

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It’s 1:40 p.m.

The time that runs through the atmosphere becomes clockwork. And each number is a neighbor, a close neighbor from the ones whose wishes linger in their minds. Time consumes their energy and the love they have for what they do. Clockwork takes away their dreams and they start procrastinating their hours. I’m one of them who fears the carcass of the minute just passed.

It’s 1:42 p.m.

And as I’m writing this, I can say that my time is running out, maybe just another our or maybe a day. Time is relative and one can’t say how much of it has passed since we last dreamt with reaching the outer space. I don’t clearly remember why the clock gave me another opportunity just to torture me, just so I could be another miserable slave of his endless tic-tac.

It’s already 1:45 p.m.

Just the minutes that have passed since I last had my own delirium. Clockwork isn’t easily done, it’s not even done by humans. Clockwork doesn’t show the dark side of time, only an objective vision of what can be the death of human race.

It’s 1:47 p.m.

We’re just neophytes when reading the clock. Because if we knew how to do it, we wouldn’t fight with other people, we wouldn’t kill, steal or lie. If we knew what clockwork really means, we would live in a different way, in a brighter way. But we only regret and sob, even when the sound of our own clock starts telling us we’re running out of time.

Already 1:50 p.m.

Look how fast the minutes have run through this story and if you got here without cheating you already knows what I’m talking about. It probably means that you know how to read clocks and interpret each hour the way it deserves.

All of us know how to read a clock but few of us don’t make mistakes when reading it.

 

Neophyte

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