Time

A look at the inner workings of the human clock.

Oddly enough, time kept moving. Even after everybody said it wouldn’t, after everybody said that he could never do it, he did.

Another tick-tock on the click-clock.

Again, time kept moving onwards. In some ways, that was terrible. Time was a cruel and heartless mistress. Cold and unloving, she waited for nobody. At the same time, it was comforting. Like a familiar friend, time was reliable. It was there, solid and unmoving when nothing else was constant. Time always has been, it is, and it always will be.

Tick-tock. Click-clock.

Now take a beat. Take a beat and breathe. Take a beat to stop and smell the roses. Take a beat to listen to the crickets chirp. Chirp away, friends.

Before he knew it, time had lost meaning. To him, as much as it always had been, it never was. It was an abstraction to his everyday routine. Everything else was normal, by comparison at least. Everything else could be touched, felt, seen. Time, though, couldn’t. To him, everybody else could say that one-sixtieth of a circle represented one second all they pleased—it didn’t matter. Time couldn’t be. It never was, it isn’t now, and it never would be.

Another tick-tock on the click-clock. The thought was gone.

Back to the old grind.