An Hour to Die, An Hour to Live

Time.

A non-existent entity, a mere creation.

Something that the human race imparted upon itself.

Compartmentalized by our own hands.

 

Centuries, decades, years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds.

All wrapped up in our pretty little calendars, date books and pocket planners.

A lifetime broken into

 9 a.m. board meetings,

laundry on Tuesday,

vacation from the 6^th to the 13^th.

Our time. Our selves. Our souls.

Gauged by the watch, the dial, the clock-radio on our nightstand.

 

But can we measure the moment,

Confine and define the memory,

Make it a science?

Entrap it within a sphere,

Dictate it by the movement of your hands?

As the inner depths of our minds are

Poked, prodded, pushed, pealed, pulverized

Into a neat oblivion.

Surely not, you will undoubtedly say.

 

And yet, he will try.

 

He, the man in the mask

Fumbles with the small, glass object,

Running his hands over every intricate detail.

The small chips. The slight etchings. The imperfections.

He sets it upon a table that sits in front of that pale white figure.

 

The sand begins to pour.

 

An hour to die, an hour to live.

An hour to tell their story.

An hour to tell my own.

Reviews

[Athena Ramos]

just by this chapter i can see that this is brilliant :D you must've put a lot of thought into this :D
i don't think i have any constructive criticism for this cause it's already amazing as it is :)

[Alice]

This is a beautiful way to describe time.
Not real, so real. A minute means the world, but its meaning only holds true to those who believe in its importance. I think you deal with this perfectly, eloquently.
I love it.