“What time is it?” -suppressed anxiety-
A blank room, a table, a man, the hands of a ticking clock, black contrasting sharply with the white pane underneath, hands fiddled with a broken pen, scratches all over, depicting the extensive use, though the ink remained as it was, forever frozen in the cartridge.
“It’s ten past eleven, why would you ask?” -collected knowledge-
“Because, well…they lie,” -a vexatious admission of a belief-
Nervous hands play with the pen, face turned down, unable to face reality, fingernails cut so close to the skin hardly any skin showed, the table was grey, walls of white, and the clock ticked in black and white, behind his back; he dared not face it with his accusations of guilt.
“How do they lie?” -a compassionate inquire into the mind-
“The clocks, they…each time you venture back, they change,” -a disillusioned truth-
In his mind chaos reigns, but it has been blackened out by the truth, no longer does he recall his name, time has lost its meaning, there was nothing which could convince him of its existence, him being a man without a past and but a few items, it might occur now, but there was now way of proving it’s presence before the turn of events.
“Well, that’s because time changes,” -a proven fact-
“No, no, no, I mean. They…never tell the truth, you see, they play games, it’s what they do,” -uncertainty tackles his thoughts-
And the darkness is worse than any sin he could’ve committed, the uncertainty won’t allow him to deal with it, his purpose has been negated, and perhaps, somewhere, someone knew, and he was missing out, fleeing, he doesn’t think he is a coward, but he might have been.
“Is that right, why?” -reason forces him to pry-
“I don’t know why! It just is. I don’t ask why sun comes up, it just does,” -rekindled resolve-
If the world would’ve ended, he wouldn’t have minded, but he does, he realizes, why else would he venture the lengths he had to obscure his plan from the fluorescent lights and the refrigerator, the clock wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg, wasn’t even the starting point, he needed allies, they could not be found in the men in white coats.
“You think they have it in for you?” -masked intrigue-
“No, no, they’re like that for everyone, time flies, man, it warps, bends, it’s…out of our…ability to comprehend. Clocks, they’re the enemy, they lie, because they can’t grasp time any better than a man could…ever,” -lost realization-
And the darkness deepens, colours flutter in the recesses, but before they can be defined they flee, ever out of his grasp and it is infuriating, yet his intellect, his being, still exists, of that, he is certain, and as such he can’t give in, it’s in his nature to fight it, no compliance, the same strength that makes him fight the men in white.
“You have a lot of enemies, don’t you, Chester?” -grounding comments-
“No, yes…maybe, but the clocks…they’re different, they don’t side with anyone…they’re powerful. You see, they govern time. We think they’re right, always, but they’re not. Time is relative,” -contemplative truths, carelessly strewn to the enemy-
No, don’t tell them what you know, the war that awaits you in your confused state of mind, the darkness of your night and it is night, no stars shine, no name to call your own, he is lost in the chaotic void in his mind, his hands keep playing with the pen, blue eyes, painted with ink, he feels like escaping by all means, jab an eye out with the pen but refrains.
“Those are some deep thoughts there, Chester, but without clocks, how else would we measure time?” -careful consideration, acknowledgement of intellect-
“We can’t, you see, that’s the problem. Time can’t be measured, time is an emotion…sometimes, it allies with anger and flees, sometimes…it doesn’t want to be noticed and…you forget it’s there,” -forgotten, like he had-
Emotions, what do they mean, cold, sterile, like the walls surrounding you, the innards of the clock ticking on the wall, without beginning, no ending, time is eternal, therefore you cannot measure it, it’s all so senseless, devoid of emotion, where is the passion with which he wanted to safe the world and even if there was, why was it there in the first place, he was trapped in a state of being, time no longer had a grip on him.
“How can time be an emotion? It’s not something we can feel, is it?” -confused, like he knows-
“Maybe…not…no, but, time is…different for everyone, an hour…may feel like less. Sometimes…It’s like, waves, like emotions differ in scale, riding the tidal wave of ones heart and the clocks…they don’t know, they just trick you.
“Have you ever…measured how angry you were?”
He has tried, taking cups, filling them with the tears of his sadness, but always, the tears would dry before reaching the cup, empty, and as such he concluded there was no emotion, no tears to cry, it didn’t matter, no one cared, the tears fell without reason, time kept running without purpose and those that tried to contain it were but fools, he realized that now.
“I understand but, to say time is an emotion, might be stretching it.”
“Maybe, but clocks are still liars,” -lost in his own world-
His mind was on a standstill.
“So they must be then,” -allowing him his eccentric nature-