Passing Time Part II

There are three clocks in the room. This is, by any contrivance of the space they occupy, unnecessary. The small size, the cluttered, but not disorganized, arrangement of dusted furniture; the clocks stand out prominently in their excess. Their ticks and tocks meld discordantly, the once would-be harmony lost to the imperfect minutiae of every mechanically artificed minute. They were set, once, with care and precision, placed with forethought and deliberation in those redundant places. Regarded, admired, by at least one. As much as anyone can conceive of a clock being born, it is born when it begins to fulfill its function, as with any tool: not as a contraption in a shop or a box, but as a timepiece, viewable, on a wall or a desk. These clocks began their lives together. They have been alive for a very long time.

Longer than, for example, their current owner, who had lost any conception of his own function and, perhaps, likened himself to a clock that failed to tell time. Worse, he thought, semi-amused, one created without even a face upon which to display whatever purpose the meticulously placed cogs and wheels of his ticking insides had been designed for. Not merely broken; pointless. It would have been immensely gratifying to him if Zeus or Allah or E.T. or L. Ron Hubbard had simply outfitted a display on each person's forehead, eliciting such useful information as their immediate purpose for existing. Would it even be that complicated? Several billion of them would no doubt be, "Assist in genetic proliferation of species." The majority of the rest would not have to aspire to greater than Fortune Cookie specificity and no more than a few million would take any real, nose to the grindstone creative effort on a superior being's part to pen. It would do a world of good for Him or Herself in terms of public relations and certainly mitigate his own feelings about standing on the ledge of the roof of his office building with a gun to his head.

"Why are you on the ledge if you're going to shoot yourself?", the gentleman asked.

"Pardon?"

"I said, what is the point of coming all the way up here to jump off if you're just going to put a bullet in your head?"

"I couldn't decide which would be more satisfying in my cube, so I thought I'd bring the gun up here and see how I felt."

"So? Any epiphanies?"

"I think I might jump and shoot myself if I get too scared of the ground rushing up at me. Or if I get too embarrassed about causing a scene as I get closer to all those people gathering down there."

"You're worried about what they think?"

"Yes, isn't everyone?"

"Well, have you considered a less conspicuous way of killing yourself? A run-of-the-mill suicide might get an off-cover mention in the daily express, but a jumper who shoots himself on the way down? That's going on the 10 o'clock news, friend."

He sighed. "Nothing I've tried seems to have worked so far."

"That certainly is self-evident."

~~~

I wrote the first paragraph of this over 2 years ago during a break at school in Korea, just to pass the time. I intended to flesh it out a little more and make the compulsiveness of the man living in the house into the main story element, but today I started writing and it took on a, somewhat humorous, life of its own. I think it would be really interesting if someone had a project where a book is written one chapter at a time over the course of 20 or 30 years, perhaps changing styles and tone based on his understanding of life at the time, or even that day. Maybe actual autobiographical notes could be included next to the entries to give insight into the content (e.g. the Calvin & Hobbes 10th Anniversary Edition, one of the most enjoyable reading experiences I've ever had.) Though I'm sure this would most likely be an inadvertent undertaking rather than a premeditated 30-year project. Certainly not a scheme to stake your livelihood on.