The Clocks That Stop

We have seen this coming for quite some tics, and just as many tocs. Counting every second with heavy hearts waiting for this moment to arrive, poised to stop at the perfect time. We don’t want to disrespect his wishes, after all. The man who first brought us to life: the clocks that stop when the mourners come. He is no more, and that is what we have done. Once more we have stopped with sorrow in our hearts, as the piano ceases and the drumming starts. Just as he has done to all of the others, Death has sunk his vicious hooks deep into our beloved creator, whom without, we would have known only inanimacy.

Some believe death slips in, draped in an onyx black cloak, inching quietly closer to the souls identified as ripe for harvest, like a farmer assessing which crops to gather. We know, however, he takes a different approach. Most think he keeps himself disguised, but he makes his presence known. If only to us. You may not perceive him as he creeps inside your house. But we will. We will hear his raspy, dying breaths as he reaches out to pluck the life which your heart and lungs hold so dear. We cannot warn you though. We witness the preface to the demise of so many and still we remain powerless. Ticking clocks on the wall. We watch as he creeps through the windows and walls of your soul, until nothing is left unrestricted by his sinister grasp. We strain to look away, as he pulls you under with a scream and a shout. For while, to you, death may be silent, dying is not.

Now, as we’re here, once again observing Death as he carries out his business, the all-too-familiar burden adorns our shoulders. Only this time, that burden contains heartache. We are not used to this feeling. We feel grief for ordinary deaths but we don’t form attachments and we don’t feel heartache. However, this is no ordinary death. This is the death of our maker, our reason why. We still remember that first day. The day his world stopped. The day he wished for the stars, moon and sun to be locked away. That was the day we were brought to life. Through his pain, he wrote us into existence. We were his outlet. His way of explaining how significantly the struggle of death weighs on the shoulders of the world. We don’t think he knew that he would supply our life force. We don’t think he has ever been aware of our existence. Nevertheless, every time we stop counting we thank him with all that our mechanical hearts can offer, that we soon begin again.

That is why this passing will be so much harder. As we watch Death stifle our architect’s last breaths, we prepare our hands to conclude their turning. Only, this time will be different. This time, we won’t resume our ticking. This time will be the last time the clocks that stop, will stop. Our maker fabricated our very existence amid his own grief, and it is through the pure grief of his passing that we will cease that existence. The man who once grieved the loss of a lover, now grieves the reminiscences of a life he then lived. Though, now he is laying six feet under pushing daisies through the soil above, he cannot grieve for himself, so we must shoulder that burden and do it for him. That is our purpose: as the clocks that stop. With the conclusion of our insistent ticking, we inform the traffic policemen that the time has come once again, to don their black cotton gloves and mourn.

Ever since that first day, we have hung on the walls and sat on the dressers, counting down the seconds of the souls in those spaces. Ever since that first day, if you ever saw a clock in a room where a soul had not long departed, the time of death would be inscribed on its face. Ever since that first day we have known what was next. Now, we have no idea. We know we won’t start again, but we don’t know what will happen after that. Will we be forgotten? Can you be forgotten if you were never truly known? Of course, our creator knew of us, but only in his mind. He never imagined that we could be in his reality. We wonder what he would have done and how he would have felt if he had gotten the opportunity to learn of our actuality. He never did, so we will never know. Although, it is nice to imagine sometimes. Imagine the joy, melancholy or anguish he may have felt as he understood that he had brought a presence to life, but then remembered why.

Now, just as many others before him, he has finally left his mortal coil and our gears have ceased their turning one last time. No one is here to wind us up again. We will remain motionless until the end of time, which may never come, now that our counting has finished. With the absence of time the world may come to an end, or maybe time is what was holding the world back. Maybe time’s expiration will allow the world to flourish. Either way, we will not know. We will remain unaware forevermore, and to us, that is the greatest agony. He was our entire world, he gave us life, he gave us purpose. We loved that life and we loved that purpose, with every single metal fibre of our beings. With his departure, we are left alone, insentient and absolutely hopeless. For us, now that he’s gone nothing can ever come to any good.