After an hour, the minute hand hit twenty-nine. The longest sixty seconds of his life. No time to waste as he prepares for the next round of time.
âStop staring at the clock.â He found himself screaming in his head. But it was a little too late for that. It was burned into his retinas. Figuratively, of course.
Weâre all taught to be creatures of time. Punctuality has become our religion; some sort of reining concern that none of us can get over. Of course, it is one of the more incompetent systems of organization. It functions around the basic assumption that we are not here, in the present. We were in the past, and weâre going to be in the future. It removes the possibility of having a window of perception with which we can think about our current scenario. We start our lives thnking of our future, and once it passes us by, weâre stuck in the past. What a half-assed system.
âEven the words are boring. Who the hell thought of the word âsecondsâ? Why canât I count down the Velcroms to my death?â
He eyes the ground for a measurable response from the crowd.
âFor ***I'm Stupid for Swearing***âs sake, donât think out loud!â he lectured himself.
âI once read a study that said that heavy smokers who stopped smoking cold turkey lost all sense of time.â
âI think Iâm going to start smoking.â
âWhy donât you just try sleeping? You can lose yourself in a dream you know. Very healthyâ¦â
âYah, but then Iâll lose my spot. Besides, I dream about clocks.â
âBummer.â
Fifteen minutes or hours passed.
The string in his mouth was in his hands and he was playing with it. Of course it didnât help, because he was forcing himself to pretend it was amusement. Doesnât count.
âI couldâve stayed back, with them. It wouldâve been good. Maybe I can still catch up to them.â
âStop being a cripple.â
The doors ceased their invitation, but the thoughts didnât. He couldnât even see what he had become. His whole life has been a series of jumping from one burning ship to another. It looks like this will be no different. At one point it will end. He will get on one of those nice boats you see on TV shows about people who are better than you and live better lives than you. Or maybe it will be a real shitty boat, but either way it doesnât matter because he will go a lot faster. He just needs a little space. Or a chance. Or a cigarette?
âWhat?â
Sorry
âAre you?â
You know the answer to that
âStay there. Stay inside. No need to come out of there. Itâs safe, it gets us places. You can do whatever you want in there as long as you stay. Just remember that to keep the both of us safe.â
Iâll do what I can. But remember, youâre the final middleman in this deal. YOU have to keep me in check.
âWhat is taking so long?â
Time
âOh, yeah.â
And with great satisfaction the hand slid right into thirty. As if it was born/destined for this path/choice. But it couldâve gone to ten. It didnât matter anymore. This was his new home; same as the rest, and they would all have to serve the same purpose anyway.
âStop staring at the clock.â He found himself screaming in his head. But it was a little too late for that. It was burned into his retinas. Figuratively, of course.
Weâre all taught to be creatures of time. Punctuality has become our religion; some sort of reining concern that none of us can get over. Of course, it is one of the more incompetent systems of organization. It functions around the basic assumption that we are not here, in the present. We were in the past, and weâre going to be in the future. It removes the possibility of having a window of perception with which we can think about our current scenario. We start our lives thnking of our future, and once it passes us by, weâre stuck in the past. What a half-assed system.
âEven the words are boring. Who the hell thought of the word âsecondsâ? Why canât I count down the Velcroms to my death?â
He eyes the ground for a measurable response from the crowd.
âFor ***I'm Stupid for Swearing***âs sake, donât think out loud!â he lectured himself.
âI once read a study that said that heavy smokers who stopped smoking cold turkey lost all sense of time.â
âI think Iâm going to start smoking.â
âWhy donât you just try sleeping? You can lose yourself in a dream you know. Very healthyâ¦â
âYah, but then Iâll lose my spot. Besides, I dream about clocks.â
âBummer.â
Fifteen minutes or hours passed.
The string in his mouth was in his hands and he was playing with it. Of course it didnât help, because he was forcing himself to pretend it was amusement. Doesnât count.
âI couldâve stayed back, with them. It wouldâve been good. Maybe I can still catch up to them.â
âStop being a cripple.â
The doors ceased their invitation, but the thoughts didnât. He couldnât even see what he had become. His whole life has been a series of jumping from one burning ship to another. It looks like this will be no different. At one point it will end. He will get on one of those nice boats you see on TV shows about people who are better than you and live better lives than you. Or maybe it will be a real shitty boat, but either way it doesnât matter because he will go a lot faster. He just needs a little space. Or a chance. Or a cigarette?
âWhat?â
Sorry
âAre you?â
You know the answer to that
âStay there. Stay inside. No need to come out of there. Itâs safe, it gets us places. You can do whatever you want in there as long as you stay. Just remember that to keep the both of us safe.â
Iâll do what I can. But remember, youâre the final middleman in this deal. YOU have to keep me in check.
âWhat is taking so long?â
Time
âOh, yeah.â
And with great satisfaction the hand slid right into thirty. As if it was born/destined for this path/choice. But it couldâve gone to ten. It didnât matter anymore. This was his new home; same as the rest, and they would all have to serve the same purpose anyway.
