tick tock

They say that Time moves slow, like the leisured tick tock, tick tock, tick tock of the school's round clock mantled on the wall, as thirty students sit on the edge of their set, waiting for the last bell to ring. They say that this beast named Time works on his own schedule, without any swaying or moving or stirring from a desperate mother's cry asking for more of him, more of Time, as she sits and waits for her child to leave this world, this day, this moment, this minute of Time. I am a Timekeeper, a Timewaster, a Timeluster. I don't track the days or the time by the moon or the sun, but by each passing page on my color-filled planner, telling me where to go, what to do and who I don't have time to speak to. I don't always waste Time doing outlandish, wretched things. But I don't spend Time doing great things or lovely things or things that I enjoy. But, oh I wish for Time; for more of him and less of the constant tick tock, tick tock, tick tock that is burning in my ears. But he doesn't listen to my constant groan and he isn't influenced by my tears and begging to slow down. He just repeats the call of death, the call which brings us closer to hell or closer to eternity in paradise: tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

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