Status: Complete
Tick, Tock
1/1
I am so tired. I've been deluding myself until now, but I'm not the only one; it's happening to everyone, whether they realize it or not.
I am lying on my bed, trying not to think, trying not to breathe, trying not to move or live in any way at all; my mind disobeys, running in circles, running, running, and it thinks that it can get somewhere new, become something extraordinary if it can just run faster, all the while letting itself forget that it has all been done before and that the circle it is making is the same one it has made since it could function and the same one it will make until it cannot function any longer.
Meanwhile, everything else changes around me- it's like life's a book, but the possessing kind of book one simply cannot put down no matter how dull it becomes, or sick, or twisted; a new chapter comes and then another, another, and you, the reader, find yourself missing the chapters of old.
You hated them then, you abhorred the way they dragged on, habitual events strung out in painful redundancy day after day, but now that they're over you yearn for their return so you could be anywhere but your current place in time.
Instead, the seconds pass.
The clock ticks.
Faster and faster.
Then faster.
Faster.
Time moves on without you. You, stuck in your circles. You, getting nowhere almost as quickly as the seconds are ticking.
You've become that once-beautiful set of antique furniture. Now it sits the roadside. Now it molds in the rain as days move on without it.
You've become a once loved stuffed rabbit. You were left behind by the child who loved you before another excitement caught her attention. You can't call her back. You're just a stuffed rabbit, a moldy old couch.
That's what's so irrevocably awful. There is nothing you can do. You can't call out. You can't catch up. You can't get by. So you try to surrender.
And the clock ticks on, not caring that you're gone.
I am lying on my bed, trying not to think, trying not to breathe, trying not to move or live in any way at all; my mind disobeys, running in circles, running, running, and it thinks that it can get somewhere new, become something extraordinary if it can just run faster, all the while letting itself forget that it has all been done before and that the circle it is making is the same one it has made since it could function and the same one it will make until it cannot function any longer.
Meanwhile, everything else changes around me- it's like life's a book, but the possessing kind of book one simply cannot put down no matter how dull it becomes, or sick, or twisted; a new chapter comes and then another, another, and you, the reader, find yourself missing the chapters of old.
You hated them then, you abhorred the way they dragged on, habitual events strung out in painful redundancy day after day, but now that they're over you yearn for their return so you could be anywhere but your current place in time.
Instead, the seconds pass.
The clock ticks.
Faster and faster.
Then faster.
Faster.
Time moves on without you. You, stuck in your circles. You, getting nowhere almost as quickly as the seconds are ticking.
You've become that once-beautiful set of antique furniture. Now it sits the roadside. Now it molds in the rain as days move on without it.
You've become a once loved stuffed rabbit. You were left behind by the child who loved you before another excitement caught her attention. You can't call her back. You're just a stuffed rabbit, a moldy old couch.
That's what's so irrevocably awful. There is nothing you can do. You can't call out. You can't catch up. You can't get by. So you try to surrender.
And the clock ticks on, not caring that you're gone.