Tick Tock

“Tick Tock goes the clock.
Hanging on the wall.
Tick Tock goes the clock.
Telling the time to all.
Tick Tock goes the clock.
It’s time for you to go to bed.
Tick Tock goes the clock.
Put down your sleepy head.
Tick Tock, Tick Tock,
Tick Tock, sounds the Clock!”

“Tick, tock, goes the clock, and what things shall we see?
Tick, tock, until the day, that thou shall marry me.
Tick, tock, goes the clock, and all the years they fly.
Tick, tock, and all too soon, you and I must die.
Tick, tock, goes the clock, we laughed at fate and mourned her.
Tick, tock, goes the clock, even for the Doc…
Tick, tock, goes the clock, he cradled and he rocked her.
Tick, tock, goes the clock, even for the Doctor.”

I can hear that infernal sound, all around surrounding me, as if I am in a Poe short. It echoes, sounding on an on as if in a cavern. I drown it out, I plug my ears, I distract myself with shiny toys; but never does it go away: ticking on and on and on. Time winds down, seconds go by, everyone content to ignore the littlest timepiece on their wrist sounding impending doom. Every second that runs by, never to be seen again, dashing into the distance taking the place of that which came before. Isn’t it strange: we spend time remembering times gone by, longing for that time which we never truly had. We build up great sandcastles by the shore, knowing the tide is coming in, like it does every day, and always has and always will. Crash. Crash. Crackle, fizz, hiss. Crash. Again and again, second after second, year after year: the ocean watches as the sun runs its course. The sun rises, arcs, and sets: each sunset a monolith commemorating the hours wasted, invested, squandered, spent. And what does it matter? To what avail? We distract ourselves in our technological cocoon of 200 mph cacophony: we hide from what nature and our own bodies tell us everyday; death is coming. Each wave: a tombstone; Each Moon: a Memorial. What good are all the actions, thoughts, intentions? Of what significance is all the ambitions, dreams, and failings? Why does it matter that we create or destroy? Time continues on, unchanged by our rapid withering and passing. Why should we bother to gather yon rosebuds? The stars spin in eternal dance. Wait! One just went nova. The remaining stars dance on. The leaves come, the flowers bloom, life unfolds. The leaves fall, winter comes, year after year. Tick tock goes the clock… Tick tock goes the clock… Tick tock goes your clock… and what have you done with your limited time? You are fading fast: the momentum you have is being stolen. The youth and vitality is being sapped from your bones. The blush is fading from your skin. The advent of withering fall is upon your summer blooms, but you can’t see it for the bird’s song. Soon, they will fly south for winter, and their song will distract you from the coming frost, no longer. Winter is coming. The evenings grow colder, as the nights grow longer. Your hour draws nigh, when the winds will snap you off the branch: you will plummet toward earth. Your fiery reds will turn to crackling brown, and you will return to dust, from whence you came. And to what end?

“Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their ends: each changing place with that which goes before…” -Shakespeare

And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away. P.B.S. “Ozymandias”


One thought on “Tick Tock

  1. Pingback: The Clock Ticks On Without Us « Work the Dream

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