That’s my clock.
How I loathe that contraption. I have a life-long aversion to it and what it represents.
Laying in bed, staring up at my ceiling I see dozens of stars, that familiar yellow glow. I see several crescent moons as well. They’re stickers and I don’t remember who put them there, but I like them.
They represent a sky I can’t see for the ceiling and roof above me but beyond that, beyond the clouds and stratosphere and further yet, is infinity.
A never-ending buffet of possibilities.
It hits me and for several seconds it feels like I can’t breathe. I look around the room in a panic, the world around me suddenly in fast motion, it’s lines blurred. My heart is racing and I begin to cry.
Is this it? Is this all there is? It can’t possibly be over.
The notion has me reeling and I’m borderline hysterical with grief for a life unlived and the end thereof.
I’m nine years old, turning ten tomorrow, and the idea that I’m losing single-digit status terrifies me. Nine or ninety-nine: in my head as a child it’s the same thing and life as I know it is over.
A tremendous sadness takes the place of what once was a childlike naivety mere moments before this devastating revelation.
I’m older now, but the passage of time still terrifies me so. The clocks on the wall, my wristwatch, my mobile phone: three devices to keep track of my decay and remind me tauntingly how little I’ve achieved, how much I’d like to do as time, an ever-moving train, rockets from life’s station to station.
I don’t know how to soak up more of life – more of what matters – how to quench my thirst, how to appease myself and please myself when all I can hear is the deafening thunder of the world’s clocks.
Please stop and make time.