The dull gray band encases part of my arm, motionless as it firmly stays in the same place. The small silvery hands move in an everlasting drudge with no deviation in sight, dancing around the numbers as they always have. A piece of smooth glass adhere to the top of the face, protecting the hands from the corrosive world. The invisible gears always churning about, never wasting time on the frivolous. Endless questions shoot from the depths of my mind. “When will the rush slow down?” All the components seem to yell the answer in one coherent voice. “Never!”

The dreary day begins as alarm bells screech next to the bed, jolting me out of a deep sleep an into a frantic state. I quickly fumble around with the clock, trying to disengage the alarm as it rings out as loud as a freight train. My eyes then settle into their regular ways, always tired with bags drooping deep. A hot shower futility attempts to wake me, but the fatigue is still entrenched deep within my system. As I glance at my watch it urges me to get out the door. The steam from the strong cup of coffee fogs up my glasses, and I gulp the bitter black liquid to wake me. Pistons start to jive in their usual fashion as I step hard on the gas and speed off, arm out the window, to drudge through another day.

More bells and alarms demand of the people to get going as they speed off to the first dragging hour dictated by some higher ups. I sit in one of the countless desks, as if I were just a number assigned to stay in one place, staring at a heavily marked whiteboard. The sound of rustling bleached papers flares up as many hands frantically write down every scrap of vapid information in front of them as if the notes dictated their fate. The lead of the pencil flies as a burning sensation attacks the holder of the pencil. The ticking of the watch grabs hold of my ear and proclaims that time isn’t in my favor. Fatigue builds as the dam holding it begins to creak under the pressure, as the tick of the clocks keep piling on more. The bells toll once again, as students frantically speed off to another relentless session, with Father Time being the merciless taskmaster.

The day doesn’t end outside the brick wall confines of public education. My heavy bag drags behind me, filled the promises of frivlious yet ceaseless paperwork. Later in the evening I have the honor to sell my time for minimum wage an hour serving ever-clamoring people. The ding of the clock confirms that I’m on someone else’s time, and I rush back to start. The savory smell of prepared food hits my nose like a wall as I run through the in door. The humid feel of the kitchen doesn’t last long, as I rush out to please the hoard of customers. Orders and meals fly in and out as a million different distractions desperately grab for my attention. Even when the masses are pleased, the boss looks down upon the subordinates from an ivory tower, scrutinizing our every step as we all frantically set dingy glasses and blistering-hot silverware in order to beat the deadline imposed by some overpaid higher up. The ding of the clock becomes our only relief for the night but, it only commands me to sprint home and keep trudging along.

I sit at the black desk, paperwork and books strewn in front of me as if a tornado recently wreaked havoc. The setting sun lights the area with a moody feeling, as if it was trying to give off it’s last morsel of usefulness before it disappeared. The constant tick of the clocks are drown out by the classic rock blairing out of the stereo, yet their hands keep moving forward. For every scrap of paper that becomes filled with graphite, another dozen seem to appear from nothing. The time I’m given by life dwindles as the clocks march onward, and yet the mountainous work still looms.

The day finally ends late at night, with the clocks teasing me with the fact that the interval between the then and then next day is too short. Even with the sleep-deprived life style time still marches on, as it always will. The watch is indifferent to the grueling labor, yet the silvery hands become an everlasting symbol of the workhorse society believes everyone must grow into. As the dark circles deepen around my eyes and the fatigue seizes me, the watch seem to become a boulder imprisoning my very soul. Pink Floyd’s wisdom seem to become more prominent with each long drawn out day; “Shorter of breath, and one day closer to death.” Maybe it’s all a waste of time?