Desastres Naturales.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick,  to-

He looks up at the clock whose second hand is still now, time freezes for a second there as his brain scrambles to figure out what it is that has suddenly gone missing. Something so seemingly insignificant, so perfectly natural, as the sound of a second hand ticking, his mind does not know quite how to react to its abrupt absence.

He stares at the once-clock. What is it, now? A clock which cannot mark time. Something whose entire existence is now entirely invalidated. A being with no raison d'être, no reason for being. He does not know how long he stares. Ha ha.

And the once-clock stares back at him. Tick, tock. No one's making those hands start moving again, and yet life goes on.

Life does. He starts walking. Away. And he walks, and he walks, and he walks. What, or who, was waiting for him back there anyway? Nothing. Just an existential question of a clock. Ha ha. He walks on.

He remembers this recurring dream he has:

A girl, a traveller in a city on a hill. As she wanders, absolutely and utterly alone, she wonders. She stops at a break between two buildings, and gazes out at the city spread out before her. She's never felt so alive, alone in a strange new city. The possibilities seem endless. It is beautiful, stark, the utter desolation of freedom. She smiles softly to herself. She walks on.

He realizes he cannot hold on to a girl like that. He must not. That no matter how tightly she holds his hand as they walk in the park, a part of her will always long to be free. A part of her which wants to lose everything, to leave everything behind. Her family and her friends and her habits. Her work and the things she enjoys. All the things that make her, her. She cannot help it - the desolation of freedom accepts no compromise.

Ah, compromise. He remembers the man on the streets, old, decrepit. Broken.

Love fully, or not at all. If love doesn't ruin you, then why love at all? Why settle for some safe, pale imitation of love?

His eyes comes alive as he speaks the words. Maybe broken isn't so bad after all.

What a strange place. This modern world, right? Surrounded by all these people, five million of us in this tiny city-state, and you're alone. Even though each of us know how lonely we all are. We pass each other by, strangers on a train, embarrassed by the furtive eye-contact, when we're caught peeking at each other's messages, showing interest in the shows we're watching, the games we're playing. Embarrassed!

The broken man does not stop talking.

The girl on the train reading the same print of Catch-22 you never quite got around to reading yourself, listening to your favourite song just that little bit too loud so it bleeds into the otherwise quiet cabin, with a faint smile flickering about her lips as she comes to the realization that you're looking at her. Perhaps wondering, too, what might be if you would just say something. A million possiblities, and then nothing. Another day, right?

Another day, it is. It has to be! The once-clock protests in futility - time marches relentlessly on. He takes comfort in that. He walks on.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Cow Now Brown Huh?

Or: Where is the Δ?

Let me sort myself out, here, please now. Nothing changes. Does it? Things are no more (and no less) scary just because. We shall, as always, have to keep on keeping on.

Yup. This is worth it.