Out of Time

I am floating in an endless sea without a single landmass in sight. I tread water like Jesus on eggshells, for hours or minutes maybe, but who the hell’s counting anyway?

I am currently being taken through a period of transition; I am slowly weaning myself off of time.

I have become weak and dependent on weekends for respite, despite possessing all the time in the world, it is the thickening ticking of the clock that haunts me. I have dreamed of living without time for ages, but now I wake instinctively, not according to a bunch of binary numbers picked at random to decide whether my present fate is to face the world or remain incarcerated in slumberland.

I eat when I’m hungry, and refrain from demanding the clock’s advice between meals.

I have placed myself in a situation where I am forced to have my own opinion on everything, and since there is nobody else to consult, I confer with my own body, and follow my gut feeling.

I have found a shortcut to enlightenment that would-be Buddhists would die for, instead of killing time meditating.

The circular face of the clock is necessarily similar to that of its cousin – the compass. We orient ourselves in relation to their readings which give meaning to our lives and positions, as if each time we glance up to take note of the time, we are really looking for approval and validation instead.

This makes sense in a society that literally runs like clockwork, and it seems necessary that underneath all the systematic learning, working, playing, production and consumption, lies a strong, intangible force to hold everything in place. And like a photograph fixes its subject in time, time itself holds its own subjects captive in the illusion of unstoppable movement.

Time is the one true religion.

I stand naked in the desert, unable to escape my itchy skin that clings to me like a parasitic worm. The heat stings it, and it writhes in an agitated agony as if the roles were reversed, and it was me sucking at its life-force and draining it to a thin, brittle sheath.

There is nowhere to go, and nowhere to avoid the heat, while my own shadow clutches to me in the eternal midday sun.

A bleak now-ness stretches as far as the horizon in all directions, and I locomote in slow motion, a defiantly reluctant explorer of these forgotten lands, without map, compass or purpose. My legs move as if afflicted by dream physics; trying harder gets me nowhere fast; trying less, even more so.

This landscape is entirely featureless, omnipresent, and omnipotent, like an alien deity revealing itself to a helpless audience. But there is no celestial body to look to for guidance, except the sun who blinds us, and fills our heads with remorseful thoughts about reversing the past, and dreams of passing the future elsewhere.

The air is still, and a low hum fades away into my subconscious like a dull ache. I hear the sound of my own heart beating impatiently, anxiously waiting for each new breath as if trapped within the power of some silent and unseen waves, who break without stopping to consider how vital my organs are.

I see without seeing; I am a blind man living a lie, constructing an elaborate hallucination out of a catalogue of tattered clichés, second-hand half-truths, and exaggerated anecdotes. Yet I see through my own delusion, in an ironic, evolutionary twist of fate.

Incapacitated in captivity, inhabiting a glass box built by the delicately-gloved hands of a master mime with a master mind. All of my defaults displayed like the flayed backs of black slaves on a mundane memorial wall, with a plaque that reads “Here to save you all from this Monday morning, a yawn is just a warning to savour Sunday, that’s all.”