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Click of the Clocks
Last night my uncle died of AIDS. The last time I spoke to him, I was 12 years old. He made a joke about Motel Rooms and I thought he was the funniest guy I knew.
I've had months where I could've gone to see him; he was only two hours away. When I found out he was dying, I should've called but I thought I had time. I thought I had enough time to schedule a day where I would go and see him. Of course, that day was next weekend. Not this one or the last, when time was what I had, what he had.
Time, what a rude awakening it is. We all sit, believing we had so much of it. While really it's just ticking away, as we ignore the fact that slowly but surely it is escaping us. Running down the clock until one day all of our years and months, our days and hours, minutes and seconds have all run out. And we die, along with everything else in the world.
We're laid to rest in a place where people can come and visit. Paying their dues as friends or family. Until one day their visits are shorter, or less often, and then they stop coming. They feel they've come enough for us to know they loved us. And then their clocks run out too, and they join us in the ground. Deep beneath the living people, forever immortalized in marble and stone. A name, a date, a sad sentence summarizing us.
As much as we try to forget that our lives are slowly dwindling away, we cannot escape reality. For it sits in our kitchens, on our bedside tables. The monotonous clicking of the clock. And we try and pass it off as a reminder of the day, but in the end it truly marks the seconds, the minutes, the hours we've lost. Until there are no more, and the clock stops for us, but keeps going for others. Day after day, month after month, year after year, people die. Some we know, some we don't, some we miss, some we forget. But in the end, we all have to hear the last click of the clock.
But this is rather pitiful. Here I sit, writing woe is me, but woe is he. He is the one who no longer breaths. He is the one who no longer writes, nor reads, nor laughs. He is the one who no longer lives, while I type away at my computer, mourning the life of a man I hardly knew, as a person I no longer am.
depressedI've had months where I could've gone to see him; he was only two hours away. When I found out he was dying, I should've called but I thought I had time. I thought I had enough time to schedule a day where I would go and see him. Of course, that day was next weekend. Not this one or the last, when time was what I had, what he had.
Time, what a rude awakening it is. We all sit, believing we had so much of it. While really it's just ticking away, as we ignore the fact that slowly but surely it is escaping us. Running down the clock until one day all of our years and months, our days and hours, minutes and seconds have all run out. And we die, along with everything else in the world.
We're laid to rest in a place where people can come and visit. Paying their dues as friends or family. Until one day their visits are shorter, or less often, and then they stop coming. They feel they've come enough for us to know they loved us. And then their clocks run out too, and they join us in the ground. Deep beneath the living people, forever immortalized in marble and stone. A name, a date, a sad sentence summarizing us.
As much as we try to forget that our lives are slowly dwindling away, we cannot escape reality. For it sits in our kitchens, on our bedside tables. The monotonous clicking of the clock. And we try and pass it off as a reminder of the day, but in the end it truly marks the seconds, the minutes, the hours we've lost. Until there are no more, and the clock stops for us, but keeps going for others. Day after day, month after month, year after year, people die. Some we know, some we don't, some we miss, some we forget. But in the end, we all have to hear the last click of the clock.
But this is rather pitiful. Here I sit, writing woe is me, but woe is he. He is the one who no longer breaths. He is the one who no longer writes, nor reads, nor laughs. He is the one who no longer lives, while I type away at my computer, mourning the life of a man I hardly knew, as a person I no longer am.
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