The old chamber is dirty and bleak, not dissimilar to a dungeon. I sit here in the small evil hours contemplating the conception of time.
I sit here in the hallway and wearily view the antique clock adorning the wall. The night is cold and I feel I am growing old. Yet the inevitability of the clocks chimes offer some consolation in these morbid times. The conception of time between two points leaves an aching in my joints. Arrogantly, I lean forward to snort another line upon the mirror, my sole escapism from this conceptual error. Time is but a metaphorical aphorism one culminating in a mental schism.
I am now enveloped in a catatonic state, one in which time passes down through the ages and flows onto my pages. I have opened the book of time and it leads me on to the golden age of the sublime. A divine apotheosis, I have become the candidate for a timeless synthesis. All of times endless configurations embody me like glorious constellations. The phoenix from the flames has flown as I watch time march forward into the unknown.
Some say time is sublime but it ought to be a crime. I sit here at 1.30am in my armchair and the clock is near. I sit here in a semi-catatonic state almost becoming irate as the tick tocks begin to grate. I need time like we all do, but apparently it does not need me, or does it?
It's midnight, and I sit in the old armchair in the hall and gaze at the old clock adorning the wall. I ponder on mechanical clocks and lives in other epochs.
Am I doing time, or is time doing me? With every insufferable tick tock I slide further into a malaise. I have become mesmerized by the concept of time itself. Time, in the form of a mechanical tick, penetrates my mind. The brutal torture it inflicts upon my person ought to be labelled a crime and not time. As time passes each sound of the clock now adopts a slight different permutation: is it tick tock or tick tick? Has this beast of Swedish origin changed its configurations or has my perception of the noise it omits altered? One day the old clocks time will be up, then it will remind me of the time no more.
© Copyright Act 1994
A single clandestine water droplet hangs from a blade of grass. Icicles cling precariously to a thin lifeless branch-itself bending and swaying due to a blisteringly cold wind. A fallen tree blocks the path onward splintered wood chips cover the sullen earth. Winds that scream, as if possessed by demons. Banshees howl in the darkness, demanding our attention. Stricken with fear our bodies contort with apprehension of the unknown. Shivering evil night, as hell torments our very souls. Torrents of rain drench the old fixtures of the house. Condensation draws eerie and macabre ghost-like figures on a window pain. Midnight lightning pierces through the night sky with the power of a thousand suns, then instantaneously disintegrates into the either.
A lightening bolt slices a tree in two and we repel backwards from the flames. Soon after thunder shakes the earth to its core. The old creek ferociously gushes water -enveloping everything in its wake. Deafening white noise, ice on breath, and an unsteady accent onward up the incline.
Looking down below our balance is compromised, still we take the unsure pathway up ahead. The small bridge is now visible, though the water level has risen considerably. Every shallow feverish breath we draw in and exhale drives us inexorably onward up the path. Then we reach a clearing in the woods. Now a desolate gravel road is visible through the mist- tis a glimmer of hope that beckons us onward The earth becomes unsteady under foot, with each and every step. Embankments give way to the elements, earth falling into earth. And that hellish vexatious voice in our heads eternally repeating: “the path onward, the path onward.
© Copyright Act 1994