TDV 27: The Clock’s Many HandsOctober 23rd, 2008 by Sharkchild
My hands were always true. I relied on their dexterity for manipulation, their sturdiness for strength, and their gentleness for care. With hands, I led myself forward through the galaxies of all things. Just as an insect’s wings are its salvation from danger and guide to survival, my hands were the guardians and practitioners of my life. They were simple tools, but they held the capacity for feats far greater than that what was seemingly possible.
I used to stare at my hands, as delicate and worn as they were, and wonder about the future’s brethren. Every line—every wrinkle—depicted a trail and experience that cut deeply into the meat on my bones. Ravines, ridges, hills, bruises, scratches—they formed the map of my past. For such a medieval being, I was burdened with a horrible novelty of self-reflection. Garnering understanding should never have been an attribute of my very trivial existence, let alone the curse of my accompanying emotional flaws. There was always a certain nostalgia that lingered with me, though I did nothing differently than I always had.
Mechanical clocks were my occupation and gears were my expertise, although I did not work on them so much as I lived within them. I was very small—small enough to slide through cracks—but I thought nothing of it; it was all I ever knew. When my energy was with me, I would clean and align. When I grew wearisome, I would rest and think. Of my kind, I found none other than the rare glimpses I caught of myself upon the freshly cleaned glass covering the elderly faces and bodies of ageless clocks. The sight of myself was not pleasing and it took several days for the wearing affect it had on me to fade. I was content with being the hidden repairman of time: the plain, tangible, ticking relic kind of time.
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