The broken clock fixed on the wall above the door stares down at me.
It really is broken, has been for a while now. And I would appreciate it if the Universe stopped mocking me so blatantly. It’s cheap symbolism, this broken clock. (But then again, it seems cheap is all I can afford. All of the more complex artistry has been lost on me.)
This clock is stuck, always, on one point. And yet when you need the time, you still look to it and there’s that slight moment of realisation when you register the unmoving hands, the frozen picture.
“Oh, of course.”
But the greater irony is near impossible to ignore. (It helps that, over the years, I have spoken irony like a second language, or even as a language in a language.) I can see the midday sun smeared across the clock’s reflective surface. And soon enough, the afternoon sun will take its place. Then it will be the colours of twilight and midnight and dusk and then, again, the softness of breaking dawn.
Time is going on without me.
I am a broken clock, and the seasons, the people are passing me by. I will soon be obsolete.
I am recklessly trying to repair myself, but I know. I’ve run out of battery. Out of hope.
The symbolism is poor-quality if I can understand it. But guess what? I get it. I get the point. I’m a broken clock. Except, I’m also not.
A broken clock cannot repair itself. It has no Life, no Will, no Self. But I am human, and I am all that. I can find Hope again.