The Last Strike of the Minute Hand

January 2, 2011
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Tickling timers, they are a constant. Silently reminding the reality, they appear in fairy-tales, they are everywhere. Time owns everything. Patiently, it waits for its role to come into presence, often with the help from procrastination. Secretly, it LOLs at your adagio realization. Sneakily, it casts its shadow over you—only sounding at the final strike. Strategically, it fools you with its pure wings, carrying you to the land of perfection and happy-ending; then, with each strike, your perfect world breaks apart, piece by piece. Until that final strike sends the poor souls—Cinderella, and you—back into reality. Oh, of course, only your reality doesn't contain the prince and the happy ending; you must earn it yourself.

Oh dear time, my dear old chap, why do I let you fool me? Over and over, until I’m used to this thing called “used-to”s?





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