“I wish I was a clock” said George, sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the fly next to his dinner plate.
The insect gave him no answer.
“I mean, I guess I sort of am, in some ways”.
Still no answer from the fly.
“I like to think I am. Some people say I’m too square and that I should be more free-spirited. But they don’t get it; they don’t understand the art of time.”
The fly remained stationary.
“You see, the clock is merely an instrument to the world’s most extraordinary arrangement.”
Miming with his hands and raising his passionate voice, George carried on with his statement.
“The arrows are keys and the minutes are notes. Every beat it creates travels through the rhythms of life, harmonising distinct heartbeats, monitoring a clamour of routines, building up a crescendo of success, and ending on the cadence of death.”
From the dinner plate, the fly jolted into the air and flew away.
George remained seated in his kitchen, staring at the plain white wall.
…
The alarm read 7:00; he rose to his feet and followed the grid of his hallways; his suit echoed the grey of his sheets.
Travelling through the prim neighborhood, switching legs on each passing second, he walked down the streets like a sewing machine. THUM — THUM — THUM.
8:25: George swung open the classroom door and made his way to his seat.
10:15: the first bell rang.
12:30: he unpacked his lunch.
13:00: his math book opened.
14:05: the classroom door swung open.
16:25: the second bell rang.
16:45: he opened the washroom door.
18:05: the last bell rang.
18:30: he came home.
…
The alarm read 7:00; he rose to his feet and followed the grid of his hallways; his suit echoed the grey of his sheets.
George looked at his watch. One heartbeat passed. Another heartbeat pounded, then another, then another, then another heartbeat played; a thundering bass instrument.
He was 1.4 minutes late for class.
…
Travelling through the prim neighborhood, switching legs on each passing second, he walked down the streets like a sewing machine surrounded by a patchwork of chaotic lives.
8:26:04: George swung the classroom door open, trotting to his chair to make up for lost time.
10:15: the first bell rang.
12:30: he unpacked his lunch.
13:00: his math book opened.
14:05: the classroom door swung open.
16:25: the second bell rang.
16:45: he opened the washroom door.
18:05: the last bell rang.
18:30: he came home.
…
The morning after that, a ray of sunlight broke through the curtains like a diamond buried in cement. George’s eyes slowly opened. Lying on his bed, he took a moment to stare at the dash of yellow on his untainted ceiling. His gaze then followed the illuminated trail to the intersection in the corner of his room. There was a spill of dark grey moist embedding a lonely spider. It was the first time George noticed it. He fixated on it, observing the shimmer on the stain that juxtaposed the dark pigments merging with the specks of dust. The spider moved its fragile body like a flickering half-broken light bulb. The spider slowly made its way out of the dark patch onto the bright paint and then—BOOM.
George’s sudden pulse awoke the realization that he hadn’t checked the time. He pounced onto the alarm clock.
10:17: the alarm didn’t go off.
…
Travelling through the prim neighborhood, changing beat on every step, he sprinted like an aimless bag, blown down the streets by the hot-tempered wind.
Many pants later, he stormed into the classroom and collapsed onto his chair. Humiliating stares surrounded him. It wasn’t his class. Wondering around, George looked for something to do until
his next class, thinking about how he forgot to pack his lunch for the first time. He passed the beige tinted buildings like a tired snail, trying to pass time by elongating the intervals between each of his steps. He encountered a gate, decorated in purple sandpaper vines. Captivated and intrigued, George pushed it open to see a garden of blossomed flowers, overpowered by a lavender scent.
His shoes glided onto the grass until they tripped over a strolling pigeon. Startled, George noticed the alarmed bird flying away into blue void, disappearing into the cotton candy in the sky. The wind traced George’s lifted arms and conducted them through the lines in space. His fingers tapped the leaves of the trees like a piano discovered by its musician for the first time. The atonal dessicated dandelions twirled around him like nature’s glitter, decorating the matt fabric on his skin. The bluebells chimed along with the rhythm of his footsteps and the butterflies above danced like elaborate trills at the end of a piece. Hours passed when George forgot to go back to school, as his wrist was set free from his rigorous watch.
When the light dimmed down to draw the curtains and reveal the spotlight in the sky, George soloed his way home, accompanied by the whistling breeze.
…
The sun shone through the transparent curtains, giving George’s room a hue of gold. The spider from the corner of his room had escaped, and the smell of wet paint perfumed his apartment. George made his way to the windowsill, lifting it up to set free the staccato summer rain that enhanced the scent of freshly cut grass.
The alarm then went off like a vibrant chord clashing with the shade of blue on George’s bedroom walls. His feet hovered around his apartment, taking occasional pauses to stretch after a full night’s sleep. Well rested, George made breakfast, but took a moment to appreciate the outside world peeping through his kitchen window. A multicoloured arch appeared from the symphony of pouring rain while the acoustic tear drops drummed onto the silver gravel streets.
Travelling through the primm neighborhood, George showered under the sky and orchestrally splashed his feet on every puddle. When he arrived at school, he entered the classroom, scanning the room to see who he wished to sit next to; he was looking for a friend.
…
He made his way to a tall, lanky teenager wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit who carefully placed his alarm clocks neatly onto his gridded desk. George turned to him, extending his hand for a greeting.
“Hi there, I’m George. What’s your name?”
George curiously counted the number of clocks placed in front of the boy and asked:
“Why do you have three clocks on your desk?”
Shy and flushed, the boy replied:
“I’m Leslie. I like clocks.”
In response, George smiled like a wise old man would when looking at his younger self.
His eyes then fixated on the exit door, waiting for a wave of urge to surmount him. Before pounding off his chair, he offered his hand to his new friend and muttered under his breath:
“Let’s skip class today.”