What Time Is It?

What Time Is It?

A clock sits across the monotonous room guarded by four walls.

Ticking time away with each twitch of the second hand.

I sit on my chair staring at a blank face that refuses to look back.

Still as a statue, I become one with the past, present, and the future all at once.

"What time is it?" You ask.

I slowly turn my head to the only source of noise in the room; a taunting reminder.

"6:30." I answer.

"You have 17 hours. Give it time." You reply.

I do not bother resisting. It sounds reasonable enough.

I look back at the empty space and paint it with my projections.

High school has never interested me. 

To be seen as young and naïve. To be placed in an ecosystem where authority and popularity govern your life. To be perceived as ambitious yet helpless.

College students always had more autonomy amongst themselves. To be independent from family and finding your own path.

Wouldn't it be nice to be in college, friend?

"What time is it?" You ask.

The vision fades into the blank space as I check my surroundings and inspect the clock.

"12:30." I answer.

"11 hours. Take your time." You respond.

Minutes only had passed.

Has it really been 6 hours?

I do not bother pondering. I have more than enough.

I look back at the empty space once more.

College has always been a drag.

To be stuck in purgatory between education and career. To be an adult but could still do so little with no money.

Having a career would fix this dilemma. To be your own source of wealth. To be fully independent. To pursue your passion.

Wouldn't a career be wonderful, friend?

"What time is it?" You ask.

The room emerges back in sight as the clock faces me once more.

"5:30." I answer.

"6 hours. Long way to go." You respond.

Time always worked the same way. 60 seconds turn into a minute. 60 minutes turn into an hour.

How has it been 5 hours?

I do not worry. It doesn't matter.

I stare back at the blank face again. It still refuses to look back.

Employment is a joke.

To be put in a harsh environment where the line between coworkers, acquaintances, and strangers all merge into one blur. To be part of a lifeless mechanism ran by a tedious routine. To possess so much yet have none.

Intimacy could remedy my boredom. To have someone to paint colors back into your life. To give you another reason to live.

Wouldn't a relationship be delightful, friend?

"What time is it?" You ask.

Pictures begin disappearing as the greyish tone of the room looms upon me again. I stare at the clock with an angle that becomes an indication of dread.

"11:29." I answer.

"You don't have much." You respond.

That can't be. I refuse to believe it.

I recall merely seconds passing. I recall minutes feeling like minutes. Time has always felt so natural.

Is this where my time runs out? Why did my time feel so limited?

I do not wonder. I need to find out.

"What time is it?" I ask.

You close the distance between us and reach out your hand.

"It's time to go."