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It is the highest form of responsibility, the faculty to tell time bestowed upon me when I reached eight years of age. The first mark of independence.
A burden passed from one generation to the next until it flooded with pool water on a summer day.
My true mark of teenage rebellion left on a shelf next to the window for the merciless sun to kill
The very first thing I programmed on my brand new Nokia Xpress Music on my birthday, that then I’ll leaved at home after realizing my social activities amounted to zero.
An urgency when I turned twenty-seven, regretting the time wasted all those years ago. The surprising pain of it resting on my wrist-bone the first few days, a pain now forever linked to the idea of taking control of my life.
It is the device that allows me to measure the infinite into seconds. A comfortable weight on my wrist bounding me to my work, my loved shackle.
The great divider of the day, from day to night. Hours, minutes to the ten seconds I used to take in between calls at work.
A tragedy when forgotten in a drawer, the lightness on my arm making me feel like a slacker.
In the middle of the office, if I don’t move too much — I can hear it’s tic-tac reminding me that I should drudge on and on and on.
