I really like clocks.

I find the steady metronome of a traditional analog soothing; it’s faint tick-tock a whisper of stability and certainty.

But not always.

Sometimes, the sound drives me to rip its round face from my wall in a desperate, and selfish, desire for silence. At times, the tick-tock is not a whisper but a nagging generation of insecurity. Some nights, the ticking is communicative. It archives my existence with each numbered heartbeat. I’m not sure, specifically, what sets me off but I’m confident that it’s both the conscious acknowledgment of my mortality and the realization that I am absolutely p o w e r l e s s to change it.

Some nights, the ticking is communicative – archiving my existence with each numbered heartbeat

Clocks remind me that I’m fleeting. I’m being propelled forward at a rate that, cognitively, I cannot grapple. I can’t predict what’s on the other side of my exhales and the fear that future endeavors may be lost is far more unsettling than the worry of “if’s.” My thoughts are numbered and I’m afraid I won’t construct them appropriately in the time allotted.

How do I live a waste-less life? How do I aspire to perfect inspiration? How do I escape my humanity? Sometimes, I’d rather not be reminded that my time is mostly under-rated and, sometimes, completely wasted.

But I’ll entrust my most precious moments to its two small hands.

But that’s okay because after a while I’ll look that clock in the face and see no fault in its work. We’ll go on in our symbiotic relationship where I entrust my most precious moments to it’s two small hands and dance to the soft reminder that, together, we’re moving forward. It will embrace my wrist and gild my walls and we’ll continue on as we always have. In the meantime, I’ll flourish in the moments when I remember that I’m not entitled to my tomorrows.

Stay humble, stay focused, and make no small plans.