vellichor.
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you'll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
(The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)
tick
tock
tick
tock
cruel clocks.
gleaming pistons and eternally turning gears in one clockwork machine
puffs of steam
cold, dulled iron and rusted steel
mechanical
unfeeling
constant, always constant
the same steady tempo, never a beat faster or slower
time
is
running
out.
if time---the concept itself--- were a word
it would be something like
eon. millennium. vellichor. chronos.
it would be plumes of dust,
the lovelorn, world-weary aged leather-smooth creased parchment, of ancient tomes
unharnessed knowledge, the rustle, crackle
of a fire, smoke coal-dust rising, rising, ashen, ashes, ashes, like how many of us may eventually end up as, in time
threads of rusted gold---although gold, unless imbued with iron, cannot (if pure, untainted--) and burnished pewter, weaving through every breath, every heart, every beat and step and movement, every word.
time never waits.
no one can escape time.
it delivers us all to the same end.
sand slips through her fingers like silk
through the hourglass.
time
is
running
out.
time, contrary to what some may think, does not stop. it does not falter, it does not slow, it does not increase its pace.
time is a constant property of nature---
it's all a matter of perception.
time does not stop.
it does not falter, halt, for a single heart-stuttering moment between thudding, pounding beats of circulating blood, shaky breaths drawn for a moment comprised of passion, of an onslaught of emotion, of trembling fingers and anxiety until---
the world resumes
(although the metaphorical 'pause' button had never been pressed in the first place---)
time does not slow. it does not become sedate, like wading through water, bubbles escaping pursed lips, stagnant
hesitant
before resuming in its stead as if nothing had happened
(but the aftershocks resonate through the earth not long after the earthquake)
time does not increase its pace.
'time flies when we're having fun.'
its speed has nothing to do with mortal emotions, transient as we are, mere blips in the scheme of the universe, fleeting, fickle.
if our minds (so intrinsically simple yet at the same time, so incredibly complex) are occupied, attentions diverted towards a source of amusement, less attention is paid to other factors such as the ticking clocks
within
while whereas when we reside in a state of dull monotony
(boredom)
time appears to have slowed to a standstill
like the drip-drip of a leaking faucet, water slipping through the cracks of a not-very-well-patched roof
thousands of thoughts slipping through an unoccupied mind
wanting release from the tedious doldrums of life, ebbing and flowing tides
i believe
we have hourglasses, pocket-watches, grandfather clocks, tick-tock-tick-ing in synchronicity
and when your time runs out
whatever device there is to tell your time
stops.
draws
to a shuddering halt
unless someone inevitably changes your fate
and then the pendulum begins
back and forth, back and forth, hands mechanically turning
until once again
time
ticks on.
YOU ARE READING
a litany of ruminations
Poetry{poetry collection} s c a t t e r e d dreams and drifting thoughts, oh, not everything is what it seems... (not necessarily from my own thoughts)
