Last night time tumbled off its neatly trimmed dial and fled into a previously unknown universe in search of itself.
Its hands reached out to tame more than mere minutes.
Seconds shuddered alone in their fear, recoiling from the loss of standards once held and known.
Time questioned its sentence and wondered if in its wisdom, it had forgotten the very essence of itself.
Years, months, weeks, days all became measures without meaning.
It noticed for the first time that small silence, which slips off the back of naked seconds, forming a void into which everything unseen exists.
It pondered whether or not life’s true meaning lay in those unfilled spaces, paces unmarked yet so very real.
If life should now be staked, not by the turning of days, but by the slippage of fragmented milliseconds hither to unaccounted for in their invisible ways.
For it suddenly seemed, that it is in the silent backwash of inner time, all life moves like clay animation.
Time found itself suddenly longing for the containment of its old dial, a firm edge that holds all in its circle.
Wanting only to hook those errant minutes back into a line of safety with hands that remember the measures that were once the core of all belief.
Realizing all too late, that in the questioning of the now, time had released control to another.
That it was no longer a beast of its own making but a performer now being trained, forced into learning a new dance.
One without standard counts or beats.
This new thing.
This new experimental dance.
Forced time’s hands to twist.
To embrace more than a 24 hour world.
