Passage of Time

Passage of Time

Through the open window, a chiming of bells carried on the air. A slanting ray of light cut through the dust, illuminating an errant patch on the wall. Somewhere from the shadows of a room, a pair of eyes watched vacantly. A figure lay silently and unmoving on a wooden bed, supplicant to the movement of the sun. There was no light in these eyes, just a waxen yellowed glaze.

As the dust danced balletic twists, a hand moved slowly to the mattress below and stirred the body into life. Levering himself from repose, two feet circled and touched the ground as the man paused in motion. He sighed then, a sigh of weariness and defeat, and lifted his head upwards. The bells had ceased and stillness descended upon the room once more, bringing into focus the metronome beat of the clock hand on the wall opposite.

He stared fixedly into the clock face, focusing on the centre point. At this visual manifestation of human endeavour designed to capture the concept of movement he peered and nothing moved but the hands of time. In one beatific moment, he knew what it meant. All the time and motion flowed into his mind filling spaces long disused. Each rhythmic tick had ceased to be, just a unified idea of all time and movement remained. An eyebrow arched and a jaw sloped downwards. The myriad worlds and possibilities treaded his thoughts and he was subsumed into it.

On the windowsill a bird had landed and with the elegant flutter of a wing, the sanctum was despoiled. As quickly the ideas had entered, they now left in torrents. He sat silently grasping for the understanding flooding from his mind. Understanding had settled but had now taken flight. He lifted a bony hand to scratch at the futility of the moment as if to plug the leaking of something arcane and known to all but somehow unknown and elusive. Opposite, the clock beat an inexorable metronome march.

Passage of Time

Through the open window, a chiming of bells carried on the air. A slanting ray of light cut through the dust, illuminating an errant patch on the wall. Somewhere from the shadows of a room, a pair of eyes watched vacantly. A figure lay silently and unmoving on a wooden bed, supplicant to the movement of the sun. There was no light in these eyes, just a waxen yellowed glaze.

As the dust danced balletic twists, a hand moved slowly to the mattress below and stirred the body into life. Levering himself from repose, two feet circled and touched the ground as the man paused in motion. He sighed then, a sigh of weariness and defeat, and lifted his head upwards. The bells had ceased and stillness descended upon the room once more, bringing into focus the metronome beat of the clock hand on the wall opposite.

He stared fixedly into the clock face, focusing on the centre point. At this visual manifestation of human endeavour designed to capture the concept of movement he peered and nothing moved but the hands of time. In one beatific moment, he knew what it meant. All the time and motion flowed into his mind filling spaces long disused. Each rhythmic tick had ceased to be, just a unified idea of all time and movement remained. An eyebrow arched and a jaw sloped downwards. The myriad worlds and possibilities treaded his thoughts and he was subsumed into it.

On the windowsill a bird had landed and with the elegant flutter of a wing, the sanctum was despoiled. As quickly the ideas had entered, they now left in torrents. He sat silently grasping for the understanding flooding from his mind. Understanding had settled but had now taken flight. He lifted a bony hand to scratch at the futility of the moment as if to plug the leaking of something arcane and known to all but somehow unknown and elusive. Opposite, the clock beat an inexorable metronome march.

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