Thunder roared through the deserted street, illuminated only by the light of the moon. Torrential cries of raindrops splashing against rock blew across the road with gusts of cold wind to accompany them. Night had swept all attention from the road as those who had not any greater destination in mind during the day than the cluster of thirteen buildings along the sides of the street now huddled in them. [Read more…]

There are clocks everywhere I look, ticking, tick-tock-tick-tock. All wound to a different time, tick tock. It is exactly as I planned it, yes. The walls are covered with clocks that show different times–tick at different speeds. I step into a mad fantasy–what I want to go to, yes–and the world falls away.

There is a clock that shows what time I want it to be, different from its neighbor, and I do not have to do anything now. Tick tock, no, no time has passed. It is frustrating to anybody who prefers things to be organized, tick tock tick tock tock tick tick tick tock, no pattern or rhythm. Time does not exist, and yet everywhere I look, there is time, right there, yes, time and time and more time, there and there and there.

Mostly, people do not come in, claiming the tick-tock-tick-tock, always there, never stopping, drives them crazy. I do not care. It makes no difference to me whether I am crazy or not. Little gold grains slip through the hourglass, but look–that clock, there, it is right now. No time has passed. Tick. That clock is the only right one in the room, and all others are wrong. Tock. And when that clock shows that it is getting late, I will find another clock that I like better. There–look, there is one. Tick tock. Different from its neighbors, so I will remember which one it is.

It is a madhouse, yes. Tock tick. And I am its prisoner, no. This is a trap of my own making. I do not have to do anything, yes. It is a paradise–a room where reality falls away. Tick tock tick. I am slightly mad, yes. But I like that, yes, and I am happy with my room with no time, and all the time in the world. Tick tock tick tock.

The bruise is still there. It has been there for a very long time. Maybe it will stay forever. A scar–from my battle with somebody else’s heeled shoe, when I was only wearing flats, ill-prepared for the fight.

It is a battle scar that I will keep. Not for other people. I keep the scar for myself. We go through battles with the most ordinary objects; shoes, clothing, other people. Sometimes they combine.

After my foot was so rudely stepped on by that high-heeled shoe, I did not react. That was a battle too. The bruise signifies something more important than getting stepped on, or maybe it does not. It is not only a reminder of how fragile human bones are, and not only a warning to dodge somebody wearing heels.

It is a reminder of all the battles that plagued my mind at that time. I do not remember them now. But I remember the feeling. I remember being stepped on, and remember the pain of it. I remember, vaguely, what had happened before and after–not terribly significant, but it is a snapshot of life, memorable because of the pain associated with it. Life is like that. Bits of pain, confusion, happiness.

Tomorrow I will face another battle. But once the procedure is over, I will be relieved.  Every time I look in the mirror will remind me of another battle, one that I did not choose to receive–but when do we ever choose our scars?

I have many. The scar from the battle with the test tube. The small cheese knife. The scissors. The wire. The high-heeled shoe. And soon I will have another. But scars, mortal, physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, are only reminders.

They are only there to remind us and give us warning. I will no longer touch hot test tubes–or trust my lab partner at the time with open flames around. I will not longer try to slice food that quickly. I will not touch the stove, even by accident–I will wear gloves next time. There are lessons to be learned.

Oh, and I will always, always wear protective shoes around high heels.