Jul 2012
A ticking clock that twists the hours around.
An eternity passes with each second.
No longer trapped in the box with five holes.
In the same room, but millions of miles away.
Emptiness and alone.
Is it real? Or is the box real?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
No matter the case, the box is still there.
Still trapped, peeking out of those holes.
It begins again.
Death til but a tick.
What say you, friend?
That the realm of unconscious thought is real?
Perhaps even more so than that stark world of awareness.
Free at night; a slave by day.
Bound by that ticking clock to a rigid schedule of torment and relief.
Does it ever cease?
An eternity passes with each second.
No longer trapped in the box with five holes.
In the same room, but millions of miles away.
Emptiness and alone.
Is it real? Or is the box real?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
No matter the case, the box is still there.
Still trapped, peeking out of those holes.
It begins again.
Death til but a tick.
What say you, friend?
That the realm of unconscious thought is real?
Perhaps even more so than that stark world of awareness.
Free at night; a slave by day.
Bound by that ticking clock to a rigid schedule of torment and relief.
Does it ever cease?
In the beginning of the poem, the reader is awake. He cannot sleep and stares off into the darkness around him. He feels as though he only truly exists in his dreams, where he is not limited to the five main senses we use to interpret reality. He often falls into a small sleep but is awakened by the sound of a clock on the wall. He calls his friend whom he seeks advice from, and his thoughts are confirmed, but realizes that even though he is free in his sleep, he must wake up and face the conscious world daily.
