There is a dusty old wooden clock in my apartment atop a small minifridge that brings so many memories of my past and it has certainly become just as much a part of my history as any scar or birthmark. It used to chime loudly everyday at noon and again at around 6pm though, it hasn’t chimed in over a decade, or at least I dont think it chimes any longer. (Maybe I’ve grown so accustomed to its sound that I no longer hear it.) There was days long gone now that every chime seemed to be a signal that I was getting closer and closer to where I am now. Today, at one point in time was a future and everyday you see is the future eternally whether you know it or not, and  you’ve dreamed about this very day before.

It’s all too apparent now, as I look at the dusty old clock that played such a part of my childhood.  Back then,  I used to dream of this day. Only, in those dreams I had fantastic imagery of silver cars that drove themselves and great monorails extending the entire county. I had the love of my life and all lives before this one and we were together as great vines of ivy grow into each other and tangle themselves until one is indistinguishable from the other. I had smashed all my enemies and watched as thier blood crept back into the horizon like a deep, red ocean tide. There was towers that poked holes in the sky and reached distant planets in one simple elevator ride and there was wildlife that spoke to us with great prestige and distinction and all of this was clear and very certain to me back then.

This clock has ran out of ticks and tocks and chimes and bells many years ago and I sit still and watch it as if it might start to move on its own. It watches me, too, and if it could wonder,  I assume it would be wondering why I dont move and why im staring as if im waiting for an answer.
Still, we challenge each other while small flashes of memories go off in my head like random lights on the tops of radio towers.
One.
And then another.
And then nothing.
And then another.

The rest of my room is unkempt and filthy as if it was rebeling against me. As if it was giving me an attitude,  knowing I would retaliate by also showing how much of a mess I can be.
But, the clock atop the fridge waits for its chance. As all of time awaits us all. And every moment will eventually be soon.
There are so many parts of me hidden in the inside that clock.  Perhaps even my entire life. Ah, But what better metaphor for the way things should have been and used to be than a dusty old clock? All of us at some point were so incredibly far from where we are at this moment and still farther yet from where we will be soon enough….if it were true that this was how you measure life; not by how many clocks weve outlasted or how many ticks and tocks and chimes and bells we have collected, but how many of our dreams we have endured, then it is true that I have lived and will continue to live forever. Fortunately this is not the case, for in my lifetime, I have dreamt of millions of things but not yet have I put a single one of them to use. So these irritating noises continue still to be consistent, strategically placed reminders that we are being measured still. Time is a badly manufactured ribbon that may or may not suddenly fall off into pieces as its unraveled from the spool.

Needn’t I remind you that you are living your very last days right this moment? What was aching you yesterday is either destroying you right now or just a dull breeze that carried and tapered off from far, far away.

Today, I chose to choose nothing. And I let all my dreams and all the clocks in the world crumble and collect dust. Just as you may choose not to correct your hair or clothes after a strong gust of wind knowing another will soon come. And looking around, you recognize that the rest of the world is frantic and foolish trying thier best to keep themselves together and correct thier hair and clothes and steady thier feet after being blown off thier path. Hurriedly racing back to find where they started. Yet, I chose nothing. Today I let the furious winds blow me off course and tamper with my clothes and hair and realign my footwork and I stay complacent where I am tossed.
You have no choice but to give into what ailes you.  What you endure will either be the end or a great,  new path paved with all the dust of every crumbled clock and stagnant old dream.

Because on some eventual today, I will be riding inside of a freight train or maybe an airplane and all around me will be tumultuous winds. Except I won’t feel a thing from where I sit, motionless inside a peaceful cabin. I will be heading far, far away from the foolish people trying with every ounce of thier being to keep themselves together after every gust. With thier lives just erratic and tumultuous as the wind.

I will be gone and I assure you, friend, that I will never look at another clock again and I will have my peace.