Of Clocks and Senses

by thekathmandudes

Most of the times, I do not follow my senses. I suppress it with vanity and adhere to and fro like an innocent baby dandled in a bamboo cradle. I follow the clock. Not precisely time but clocks. Yes, clocks do manifest time but the mere knowledge of time is frivolous. It is insipid and derogatory to my senses. It is the clock that my heart values, nostalgia excluded, vanity burgeoning day after day. Pavlov would have certainly asserted that ‘my conditioned response of progression or digression is consequential to the mere viewing of a clock’.

Moreover, it absolutely doesn’t matter what I desire, senses forlorn and give way to defeat, it’s like I am shouting from the edge of a ponderous, elevated  cliff, “I surrender! Now give me anything you’d like”.

But the echoes chaff, ‘I give you a mass masquerade’.

‘I’d rather have sinister enemies and imbecile friends’.

The masquerade is nibbling away my complacency every day while the clocks banter with my subtlety.  I have never been known to be a stoic little bastard and it is the interminable monologues I go through prior to my deeds that makes up for the ridiculous jeering. The repression  of my senses to accommodate the sardonic needles of clocks beguiles my personal ethics and I ponder at it like it’s going to mean a whole lot of heartbeat to me later on. I am engulfed at my own lies. One needle to point at my follies, another to commend fate, the seconds confound my senses and I stand marooned, without comprehension  of my predicaments.

Sometimes, I feel that I am a special person but then I look at my wristwatch and it nonchalantly demands another trivial errand, an interminable toil. Fearing the peremptory clock, I allude to myself,  ‘All things must pass’.  But then, what should I live for if my vanity shall also pass, I’ll die of dreariness and that doesn’t sound special either.

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