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Tick, tick, tick.
Every time a second passes, a clock makes a noise to record it.
Billions of these little ticks are made in a clock's lifetime.
Days, hours, minutes, are all made up of these ticks.
A clock records whatever we have forgotten, the ticks that were wasted.
As time inevitably slips through our fingers, it falls into the clock's domain.
Time piles up, making endless arrays of mountains, hills, and valleys.
It is the land of lost time.
Every single second, minute, and hour that was wasted is stored inside the clock.
However, if you were to take apart a clock in your own home you wouldn't find your lost time. Because that isn't what I'm talking about.
Your lost time is stored somewhere special, a clock of your own.
One that you cannot touch, nor see.
The clock is a safe, one you will never open.
Perhaps you will regret your lost time, wish you hadn't done this or that.
But at the end of the sour truth is that no matter how much you would like to change the past, you just can't.
And you will never stop adding to your world of wasted time. It's just impossible.
You'll do it till the day you die. Until, the hands of the clock recording your life slows to a stop, showing the exact time you died.
Perhaps it could be December 15, 2057, 4:56 AM or July 27, 2026, 7:38 PM.
No one knows for sure. Though, I know that someone is to die on one of those dates.
The only thing you can do about it is to try your best to make sure your clock keeps ticking.
Tick, tick, tick.
(Word count: 228)
YOU ARE READING
Inanimate As You Are
PoetryLook around you. There are objects everywhere, correct? Well, I'm about to add a double meaning to some of those objects. Welcome to "Inanimate As You Are," a book where I try to make random objects somehow deep and poetic. You're welcome to come al...
