Lazarus

My clock (I shall name it Lazarus) magically started working again this morning. It had been lying on the floor a few days after I dug it out of the trash. But finally on Sunday I purchased a hook to attach it to my wall, found a battery lying around, and set it in its place on the wall (carefully calculated to achieve the greatest possible pleasure). For at least a day it counted the seconds diligently. It's calming tihc tawk, my lullaby.

Then one night I awoke quite inexplicably. It was dark. My dreams had halted. I sat up in bed, the room was unnaturally silent. I thought little of it, rolled over, and fell back asleep. It wasn't until morning, while I was eating a bowl of Wheat Flakes smothered in milk and honey, that I realized that Lazarus had died in the night.

But now he has returned to me from beyond the grave. His familiar voice is now somewhat disturbing, stained with death as it is. Yet, despite all he has been through, there he is on the wall, striving towards that noble goal. Diligently. He remains my humble servant. Twice dead, once buried, and blissfully unaware of his current discord with reality.

And just as I type these words, I hear the ticking fade, grow dim. Like through a veil. Faintly recognizable.

My clock is an artist. He does not merely labor on blindly. He brings you into his struggle. He reminds you of the difficulty of life. He challenges you to delve into the deeper meaning of existence and purpose. He halts, jarring you from familiar reality, and just as you get you bearings...

he takes two breaths and marches onward...

...towards infinity.