Clocks

I still remember what probably was the first time I screwed up. We had a pretty big house and I was an only child. I didn’t have friends since there were no kids around and my parents were always too busy. So I used to do those only child things, you know? Playing around the house all by myself, imaginary friends, the works. As I understand now, long term imaginary friends aren’t too normal, but I guess that’s where I picked up creativity. Got to have storylines with imaginary friends, no?

Anyway, I was telling you about the screw-up. So this one night I’m bouncing a ball off the wall and catching it. Yeah, when you’re a kid, such things are the happiest memories. It was a pretty good game, you know. The wall was a pretty good second. One of my throws was misjudged though, or maybe I was just an awkward little kid who didn’t have very good control over her limbs or something. That was also the first time I realized what people mean when they talk about things going in slow motion before accidents and stuff like that. It’s apparently something your brain does so that you can react quickly to things happening. No point doing it to a seven year old kid though, I guess. The ball sailed gracefully into a wall clock that had been hanging there since forever. It was a pretty stupid clock, it used to lose five minutes every other week or so. But the ball smashed the glass right through and the clock fell down with a terrifying crash right onto the floor below.

 So I’m seeing all of this happen in slow motion and I feel this sickness inside me. I’ve felt it a number of times since then, let’s just say it’s not been the slickest road. That sickness is pure, irrational fear. You don’t even know what you’re afraid of; it’s just every cell in your body saying “Holy shit, we f**ked up!” And man, that’s painful. I froze on the spot. Not that flailing my arms around would’ve been a particularly good method of putting glass together, but I stayed glued to the spot, held together by an unseen force (or a malignant imaginary friend-turned-foe.)

My vocal chords were the first parts of my body to regain control, and they reacted in the only way they knew: I let out a terrified howl that echoed in that old house. I was so loud that my own ears rang in protest. After I stopped, the echoes of my howl still found their way across the passageways of the house and into my ears. The tear glands were the next to realize they had been sleeping on the job and I started sobbing. And it was the truest crying session I must have had. I didn’t even know why I was crying, I just was. It felt like the right thing to do. I crumpled onto the ground and cried loudly, tears streaming down my face, every bit of my body making a coordinated effort at sorrow without knowing why. Reminds me of society, in a way.

My mother and father came running from the kitchen and hall receptively, with different thoughts on their mind, no doubt reinforced by the hunter-gatherer past of their ancestors - my father was ready for danger, he was alert and cautious and quite calm. My mother on the other hand had assumed that something grave had happened to her only child (which, come to think of it, is their fault). Their eyes found me crying and the clock lying in an even worse state, robbed of its glass shell, and the glass shell itself lying in the worst state of the three, having been shattered into a million pieces. The ball, of course, had rolled off somewhere and was probably trying to look inconspicuous under some piece of furniture.

My parents came running to me and my mother picked me up in my arms. I remember her patting my back to sooth me. That stuff works, by the way, next time someone around you is having a bad time, hold them close and pat the back, and don’t be creepy while you’re at it. My father decided there wasn’t much he could do to make me feel better at that moment and went about inspecting the glass. He went to the kitchen and returned with a broom to unceremoniously sweep out the remains of the glass. The clock was found to be in order and was promptly restored to its peg and although I’m sure it felt a little naked, it was still working fine, that is, losing time every other week or so.

I was intensely afraid that my parents would be angry at me for the mishap, and I would get a scolding or be grounded or something similar. In retrospect, the latter would have been ineffective, there is no grounding a child with a horde of imaginary friends. But my parents did nothing. They laughed about it. I cried harder because the situation was incomprehensible to me. But after I had regained my senses I realized that it was okay. It was alright to make a mistake once in a while, and that no one will be angry at you for that.

This is where the tragedy begins.

You see, I grew up with that belief. I grew up with a stupid idea of a world where people believe that guilt itself is the biggest punishment for some things, and they do not need to be reminded of their failures every day. I grew up with the ridiculous notion that if you didn’t have friends, you could always invent them and have them listen to you. I grew up with a lot of weird ideas in my head that don’t fit in. And all this hurts, you know? Sometimes you wish there was sort of a Meta control, where you could just say “time out!” and discuss the rules of the game again. But no, sir. There’s no time out here. We’re busy fighting and hating and I for one am busy failing and dreaming and then some. Actually, it’s not alright to screw up. There’s no forgiveness to be found. You have one life and you have ruined most of it already and with every passing second you’re closer to ending it.

The hardest part is coming to terms with everything. It should be brutally simple, in theory. Things have happened and there is nothing you can do to change them, so might as well learn to live with it. Doesn’t work that way though. This is where our theoretical experiments had zero correlation with our practical try out. The dummy failed the crash test and we can’t find his left leg, but we were sure he’d live through it. We’re all crash test dummies and the perfect score in this game is zero. We’re in negatives, though. We’re losing. My howl that night was not the loudest sound I have heard. The sound of people snuffing out their dreams is much louder, echoes much harder, and cannot be done away with by a couple of pats on the back. Acceptance is painful to watch. Especially if it’s yourself you’re looking at. Blessed are those who can settle, for the eyes that dream shall weep at night. Yeah, that was kind of made up. Much like the delusions of happiness we carry around, much like the friends I had as a child, much like the dreams you did.

But some of us try our best don’t we? Look at us. Look at that dummy as he looks for the handbrake before he hits the wall. We’re trying to save our worlds. We’re trying to salvage the films starring us, hoping for a redeeming second half. There cannot be a sequel after all. We’re hoping people will want to sit through the credits. We’re playing violins as our ship is going down. And someone has time to do a solo, and another one has time to clap, and someone is opening the wine bottle now, and the chef decided he has one last course left to serve. That’s us. We’re like the clock on my wall, you see. We’re losing time, but we’re still going ahead. It’s going to take a lot to stop us. And this is puzzling. It’s not obvious. We didn’t see this when we did the experiment on paper. But we’re kind of glad for that today. These few people are throwing our data off the charts but we’re kind of glad they’re nullifying our research. Why? Don’t ask us. We just wanted to crash some dummies into a wall.

As for the clock, we still have it. And it works just as well as it always did. I’m trying not to get too attached to it, lest it become my last leaf. But on nights when I feel that weight upon me and my imaginary friends don’t pick up their calls, the steady tick-tock feels like a pat to the back.

And like I told you, that stuff works. Try it.