Somewhere beyond the border, there are places lit up by the light of other worlds, a place within a place, through a door which opens with every key ever made. In a deep dark cavern where the eternal ocean washes in and beneath the waves under the bewitching gleam of moonshine, a curvature of polished powder blue metal is visible.
A rhythmic sound is heard echoing through the rough-hewn stone cave walls, was it the heartbeat of the very ocean or perhaps was it something living underneath, an ancient turtle or maybe a Baleen whale. But the sound heard is mechanical, too precise for breathing of a living creature. This hypnotizing song is broken by a small dingy boat carrying a White Rabbit.
The White Rabbit throws the anchor overboard, he ties the boat to a jagged rock and hops into the water. Surprisingly, he does not drown but sinks gently below the iridescent surface of the water.
Beneath the waves of silver and blue, there is a clock, a gigantic clock, as big as a Ferris-wheel, embedded in the sandy ocean bed. This clock is half sunk beneath the ocean ; one could see the detritus of shards of crystals below glimmering in pale moonlight. Schools of vibrant fish flit about it, unconscious of the invaluable treasure that is this mythical clock.
The clock had a delicate structure as if it were made of icicles or it looked like a castle made of crystalline sugar. It looked as if it were made from beams of moonshine. It was a surreal looking object, as fragile as a wish, the ones you keep close to your heart, one whisper, one breath could bring it down. The hours were marked with roman numerals, carved in silver at the edge of the frame. The base of the clock was planted in the jeweled sand beneath, but it was hard to tell where it actually began.
Time takes and it also gives you see. Changes wrought change, times wrought time, a new world as we spin. Tireless in our pursuits, tireless as if it we seek vengeance for reasons we no longer remember.
What does the time want from us? What do we want from time? What do we want from the time borrowed? that is the question one wants the answer to, even when we don't ask it. Do we search for the love lost in the rush when desires leave us bereft, our hearts beat in vain, only in vanity.
The hour hand was weighed on heavy because of a man, he had a pail, which he used to draw the water up, except when he pulled it up, the water transformed into crystals of myriad hues, he tossed the crystals out. He stood on a pedestal of sorts at the center of the tall clock. He was called ' The Timekeeper' by those who met him in their stories.
The glimmering ocean bed was made of these crystalline shards, shimmering in a thousand colors. They pulsed as if they had light of their own.
In every shard dwells every memory ever made, memories of this world, elusive moments which people recall when they un-focus their eyes and step into the moment, a hand in the flowing river, the water touches their skin, yet at the same time it slips through, these instances which color their life . The color and their gradation varied from individual to individual, the gentle ones often were in the shades of cool blues, jade and ivory, the fiery ones had brazen colours of pinks, oranges and garish purples.
These crystals contained the madness of the melody and the cacophony of insects at night, the glissando of fading notes of piano and screams of nascent dreamers still swinging in their cradles. Echoes of places, and sounds. From the deep dark void to the creation of planets, the stars burning bright and then falling like glistening tears, from the single murmur of butterflies' wings to the fall of lost old worlds.
