Time Is (Almost Up)

Time is (Almost Up) I’m not mad. My world has become precise to the point of absurdity but it’s not my fault. And I still have my sanity, even now when I can tell it’s almost time. When I’m almost out of time.

Oh, how I used to look forward to it! The time would come for the ritual to take place and I would perform my task happily. Never mind that I had no say in the matter, I put the whole of my being into those moments. The twenty or more shows I put on daily (now it is hard for me to remember how often I work in a day; everything is beginning to blur together) were a constant source of pride for me. With time, however, the ritual lost its appeal and became for me something horrific. Confronted with such inane repetition, anyone could understandably feel an urge to take leave of their senses.

I’m not mad. The ritual keeps me sane because it is always the same. And simple.

So simple that a child could divine its intentions easily and yet I am bound to study its intricacies for the rest of my time on this earth (it would seem). Always, always the same routine. A bell tolls and I am brought out from my prison (my house) and taken outside, but only for a moment. I perform a singular act (although more than once depending) that is maddening in that I have no other possible course of action. The moment my task is completed I am returned to my home. I have to stress, the time I spend outside is much less than a full minute -every time- but the ritual is invoked so often that I am privy to every hour of the day and night. One run through is hardly completed but I start dreading the next installment.

Though I now fully comprehend the ritual and my prison (the nature of both is undoubtedly sinister) there was a time that I considered myself to be a most fortunate being, especially concerning the matter of my home.

I can still remember watching my house being built. In the beginning there hadn’t been a single clue as to the building’s true purpose. Each wall went up and I thought only of how cozy my new lodgings would be. The roof was added next and when the painting was finished I could hardly contain my joy. There was only a singular peculiarity on the front. I looked at it and thought, I can live with that one oddity because everything else is so beautiful. I say all of this to reveal the depths of my ignorance at the beginning; that is, I would have chosen this house as my own even had I been afforded a choice.

But no choice was ever mine, a fact that only fuels my insanity. I’m not mad. I am only confined, restricted to darkness. Even in my spare time (waiting for the next repetition of the ritual) I am not free. I cannot leave; my feet feel glued to the spot, or possibly nailed. My knees are wooden, and my arms equally unresponsive. The only time I engage in the act of movement is during the ritual, and that is not of my own willing.

I am not mad, but on the way there. Only seconds remain before the ritual begins again. It is sometimes watched by those on the outside. New faces occasionally visit to watch me, eagerly, and I can hear them saying, “Oh, how cute,” or “I want one of my own.” Am I, then, just common stock to be traded, an ornament to be admired? And yet I say nothing- I cannot. The bell is tolling. Now, I am moving toward the great gates to the exterior (leaving my prison towards hell). Now, I am standing outside, being watched, performing. I can hear a visitor saying, “What a cleverly wrought cuckoo clock!”