Tick Tock

The hand seems to slow every second, getting closer and farther from the end. My heart beats in sync with that everlasting machine. When the clock moves, the world moves.

Rewind to the first moment of life — even then, the clock is in charge. The nurse announces, “Alright dear, 24 hours and 15 minutes — time for the epidural.” The doctor declares, “Born at 5:35 a.m.” From the first tick, the machine starts writing your story.

When time marks 365 days, you turn one. Every 365 days after that, your lifespan shrinks by one and your so-called wisdom grows by a fraction. You can’t be sure, though — if we could turn the clock back, maybe we could edit our story.

The hand seems to have stopped now, refusing to reach the twelve that rings the bell. The machine has given the teacher permission to continue her monotone symphony, dulling rather than sharpening minds. The kid next to me has been sharpening that pencil for what feels like hours.

I tune out the ticking and let my thoughts wander. A white box summons me, and the clock dissolves. The runway comes into focus. I place my hands on the floor, feeling cold cement under my fingers. Then I run.

Tick tock. Time’s running out — or maybe it never was?