Time’s a Privilege…

 

If a tick followed a tock; if the world still turned out there, you’d know not.

In here, time’s metronome sways only to the eyes of the privileged. All you’re given is their rendering: they choose night, they choose day. They impose a rhythm that is arrhythmic; a cadence that upsets your own and summons the oddest motion sickness. Each meal you have here is served to intense, or to no hunger. Each hour for sleep you either seize, or eschew. You’re pitched into and pulled by their strange and straying flow; a stick in a turbulent stream. While outside you’re sure time’s arrow runs un-delayed and linear.

Take heart; a single bearing can be obtained from within—listen to it; your heart; not for what it says—but for how it beats. Seventy at rest yes? Then rest a moment, a finger on your pulse and count…

 Three score and ten.

 See—that minute was yours. That minute you rode the arrow outside.

I shall wander…