Chronomentrophobia
Words won't come out to play.
Perhaps they don't have to, though...
Everything worth saying has already been said.
I was going to write something about my fear of clocks. Perhaps something involving the old grandfather clock we had
in the attic, and how frightened I was at the mere thought of that monstrocity. I was going to ..mention my fear of time in
general and my utter refusal to measure my life by the ticking of the gearworks that, other than for their purpose, I actually
adore and marvel at. Somewhere in the middle of it, though, I got lost. Words fall on top of eachother like trees being chopped
down, in manner most unsightly and disorderly. Having looked back upon this journal and what I had written earlier, I saw
mentions of the time when I had lost track of days entirely and it no longer mattered to me at all whether it was day or not. Entire
weeks blurred together. I was refusing to look at those abominable things, hiding them in every remote corner of the house I could
find ( and still finding them to this day in most remarkable of places. Great-grandfather's pocketwatch in the freezer, anyone? I'm
surprised I didn't stuff the goose with it and fry the bloody thing! )
I would not hesitate to ask a man on the street for the time these days. In fact, I wear a watch, which is probably a good thing
as I've to be at work by seven o'clock in the morning. And yet, the days do not seem any more discernable than they were in those
days. I can still wake up and know exactly how the day will play out itself. And the one to follow. And the one to follow that which follows...
The differences seem so marginal, I begin to wonder whether someone had placed them there on purpose.
Perhaps they don't have to, though...
Everything worth saying has already been said.
I was going to write something about my fear of clocks. Perhaps something involving the old grandfather clock we had
in the attic, and how frightened I was at the mere thought of that monstrocity. I was going to ..mention my fear of time in
general and my utter refusal to measure my life by the ticking of the gearworks that, other than for their purpose, I actually
adore and marvel at. Somewhere in the middle of it, though, I got lost. Words fall on top of eachother like trees being chopped
down, in manner most unsightly and disorderly. Having looked back upon this journal and what I had written earlier, I saw
mentions of the time when I had lost track of days entirely and it no longer mattered to me at all whether it was day or not. Entire
weeks blurred together. I was refusing to look at those abominable things, hiding them in every remote corner of the house I could
find ( and still finding them to this day in most remarkable of places. Great-grandfather's pocketwatch in the freezer, anyone? I'm
surprised I didn't stuff the goose with it and fry the bloody thing! )
I would not hesitate to ask a man on the street for the time these days. In fact, I wear a watch, which is probably a good thing
as I've to be at work by seven o'clock in the morning. And yet, the days do not seem any more discernable than they were in those
days. I can still wake up and know exactly how the day will play out itself. And the one to follow. And the one to follow that which follows...
The differences seem so marginal, I begin to wonder whether someone had placed them there on purpose.