Constant

Tick

4 people are born

Tock

2 people die

Tick

The Earth moves another thirty kilometres

Tock

The bloody clock in front of me refuses to. Just. Stop.

I clench my fists, tightly, tightly, until nails dig into palm and pain sneers derisively at my Tick incompetence. I hold them out in front of me, arms stretched, facing the clock. And then, never blinking, not once blinking (might miss something), I continue looking at the time piece, and Tock then

BAM!

Like a fleshy gunshot, I open my hands, waggling fingers slightly. Palms are white, yellow, pink, red failures. Because Tick there it goes again.

Time time time time time timety time time BLOODY Tock TIME! Does it stop? No? Will it stop? Yes, yes I’m sure. Because I’m close. So close. So very, very Tick close...

A young boy, lying in a verdant field. Joyous green stalks brush flesh, and perfect clouds in a perfect sky tell a story of a perfect life. But...

“Stop lazing! You’ve work to do!”

Never. Enough. Time. Never enough time to just...be.

The boy sighs, gets up. There’ll be time tomorrow.

A knock on the door disturbs my concentration. I irritably wave my hand in the sound’s direction, hoping to bat the annoyance away. It Tock rings out again, a more urgent knocking this time. I close my eyes and exhale loudly. There are murmured voices at my door, but there is nothing as urgent as the Tick task in hand. After some time, I don’t know, don’t care, how long, it stops. Hah! At least some things can Tock stop. I place my hands on the clock, keep my eyes closed, and focus.

A teenager, sitting in a hot room, scribbling away furiously on the exam in front of him.

“Last two minutes!” cries the voice of the apocalypse.

He lets out an inaudible cry of despair. The pen nib bursts as he forces it on the paper.

Each second falls like a hammer. There is still so much to do but there isn’t-

“Put your pens down.”

-the time to do it in.

I feel something different; an inner peace. Hunger pangs at my stomach, but the need for nutrition seems largely trivial now. Big things are going to happen. Big, Tick important things.

My clock, my friend, my enemy, my love, my Satan. But a voice piece of the greatest foe in this universe, but, O, what a fickle, mocking voice piece it Tock is. I carefully put it back on the table. The corner of my left eye twitches and, in a moment of weakness, I blink. Then I curse this lack of willpower. Tock.

The phone starts to ring. Without taking my eyes of the clo- it, I carefully lift it, then, maintaining eye contact, find some scissors Tick and cut the cord of the phone. I allow myself a chuckle. I pause briefly, then close the blinds, bolt the doors, turn off my mobile. The outside world is a distraction, and has brought little Tock good to me.

A man, in a suit, standing, swearing, in a cramped train. He glances at his watch, frequently and nervously. He clutches a CV and another form with carefully printed details over it.

 A tinny soothsayer proclaims “Unexpected delays”.

But they weren’t unexpected. The man, who realises now, and perhaps, deep-down, always knew, that this job interview was just another joke reality threw at him, expected them.

I Tick look dead ahead of me, and concentrate. All that is me focuses on that clock, on time itself, and I push my mind until it roars and squirms and suffers. There’s a point, when everything just hurts, at which you transcend the pain. It’s there, all over your body, but you’re not there to experience it. Instead of pain, I feel just a warm light-headedness. And I keep on concentrating.

The tea next to me is stone cold, but I don’t care. There’s a buzzing in my ears, but I don’t care. A vessel in my nose bursts, and glistening red desperation streams down my face, but I don’t care. Coloured lights explode in front of my eyes, Mary weeps in a painting and Jesus laughs from a piece of old toast, but I don’t care, because I have beaten time. I have beaten time. It waits for no man, but it waits for me. I dared to stare it in the eye, and

Tock

Years pass, or at least it seems that way. I begin to giggle. Slowly, quietly, at first. Then, Tick like the constant, uncontrollable, forever-to-damn-us flow of time, the laughter streams out. I can’t stop. Vision goes hazy. Goes dark. Goes Tock black. Time, you joker ,you...

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I almost had it, there. Almost.

A dishevelled man, the wrong side of thirty, lying in a heap on a litter covered floor in a decrepit flat.

Voices cry out to him, but he doesn’t know who they are, or what they say. He listens only to the clock. It stares at him, grins at him, gleams at him. He looks up at it, weakly, neck barely supporting his body, body barely supporting life. He stretches out to touch it, and, for once in his life, he finds that he finally has the time to carry out this action, this last, pathetic, action. 
At last, he has enough time.