FIC: Time
Title: Time
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: T
Summery: I confess, I do not believe in time. A Jane introspection.
Notes: Written for Ellie for the2012 Paint it Red stocking exchange
Time
"I confess, I do not believe in time." - Vladimir Nabokov
I don’t think of the years as passing me by. I don’t think that the world spinning around the sun. I don’t see the point. Numbers are just an arbitrary way of marking the turn of the seasons. And I don’t like to think of it.
I don’t count the years since my family was killed. I don’t count the time that has passed and I haven’t caught the man who ended my life. I don’t count the years since my birth, I don’t see the point. I get older whether I want to or not. There’s not a way to stop biology. But you can stop the artificial element that is time.
I like to watch people in the street, rushing from place to place like ants. So consumed in their own lives and the illusion that is time. Slaves to watches and clocks. Times set by people they don’t even remember. I think about what it would be like if they knew of the futility of their actions. The people I watch don’t slow down. They don’t notice the sun rising and setting. They just notice the clock ticking slowly.
Night and day hold no meaning to me. It doesn’t matter o me if I sleep or not. I don’t follow arbitrarily held schedules done up only to make someone I don’t know or care about happy. I live for only one reason, and that reason doesn’t have a clock.
Revenge doesn’t have a time table. It can simmer for years, for time uncountable. And when it comes time for revenge, there is no clock counting how long it lasts, how much pleasure or comfort one gets from the task. There is only feeling, only knowing.
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: T
Summery: I confess, I do not believe in time. A Jane introspection.
Notes: Written for Ellie for the2012 Paint it Red stocking exchange
Time
"I confess, I do not believe in time." - Vladimir Nabokov
I don’t think of the years as passing me by. I don’t think that the world spinning around the sun. I don’t see the point. Numbers are just an arbitrary way of marking the turn of the seasons. And I don’t like to think of it.
I don’t count the years since my family was killed. I don’t count the time that has passed and I haven’t caught the man who ended my life. I don’t count the years since my birth, I don’t see the point. I get older whether I want to or not. There’s not a way to stop biology. But you can stop the artificial element that is time.
I like to watch people in the street, rushing from place to place like ants. So consumed in their own lives and the illusion that is time. Slaves to watches and clocks. Times set by people they don’t even remember. I think about what it would be like if they knew of the futility of their actions. The people I watch don’t slow down. They don’t notice the sun rising and setting. They just notice the clock ticking slowly.
Night and day hold no meaning to me. It doesn’t matter o me if I sleep or not. I don’t follow arbitrarily held schedules done up only to make someone I don’t know or care about happy. I live for only one reason, and that reason doesn’t have a clock.
Revenge doesn’t have a time table. It can simmer for years, for time uncountable. And when it comes time for revenge, there is no clock counting how long it lasts, how much pleasure or comfort one gets from the task. There is only feeling, only knowing.