My Journey (illusorynirvana) wrote,
My Journey
illusorynirvana

Hours

Hours have this ephemeral quality, or it seems so, at least of late. They are not the perfect units of Time that we take them to be. They hide, they duck, they skip a beat and they melt into each other. An hour becomes two..or was that three!? Who knows? We blink our eyes and we are elsewhere, as if caught in an unending, terrifying ride through a dark tunnel only to emerge in flashes of daylight in between the speeding, blind obscurity.

March? Seriously? 2010? Wasn't that one of those weird years in the distant future in which science fiction tales take place? My clock ticks away without a care, a distant derivate of the incessant tick-tock in some observatory in Greenwich.

Is that the chirping of birds outside my window? 5am. Seriously?
Tags: prose, reflection
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