Tic-tac-Tic-tac

It gets moving.

Inclemently, without feelings, measuring the seconds, cutting the minutes, seeing the infinity of life pass without flinching. It's moving.

At its own pace.

With a forced and invariable march, on a path without beginning or end, in an infinite cycle that lasts one, and another, and another life.

At its own speed.

Everything adapts to its whims, to its democratic law, to the chains of its kingdom. You cannot escape. You do not want to do it.

Like the fierce shadow of a dog, it chases you. You hear its footsteps, the chains on its neck. The incessant persecution of its steps pushes you forward, towards the abyss of years, towards the future that never arrives, towards the grave.

tac-Tic-tac-Tic

It doesn't back down.

Each moving needle represents the hard work of your death. It is the silent killer; its invisible world rules your life and transforms it into simple numbers. Your existence is a flicker that disintegrates to the beat of that heavy, monotonous, mechanical sound. Tic-tac-Tic-tac, it doesn't back down. Tic-tac-Tic-tac, it doesn't stop, it just moves on even though you do not want it to. It just moves forward and in the process tears out of your arms what you most want. Tic-tac-Tic-tac. You cannot avoid it.

You open your eyes—you close them. You are a child with innocence in your face. You open your eyes—you close them. In your arms is the first love, the magic of the first encounter, the night without stars. You open your eyes-you close them, you are in the cubicle of your work. You wonder when you got there, at what time the days became routine, in an inclement march to the beat of time.

You open your eyes—you close them. The world of your childhood has disappeared; all the people who accompanied you in your first steps have vanished. You open your eyes—you close them. You find yourself more and more alone. In your solitude, the time kisses your wrinkles, dyes your hair white and revives for you, in your mind, each of the people you once wanted that have already died.

You open your eyes—you close them. You understand that you are in a vortex of indescribable suffering, in a nameless pain that leaves the traces in every corner of your final resting place. Then, the time pampers you, slows down, so that you suffer, so that you are like it, and see life sprouting everywhere—the flower of youth, the joy of being alive—while you, victim of time, consume yourself, little by little, in an almost eternal march until, you open your eyes—you close them... and, without even noticing, you do not do it again.