Of Boundaries

It is said that two clocks close together tick at nearly the same rate. But clocks separated by distance tick at different rates, the farther apart the more out of step.

     Time flows at different speed, depending on distance. When it is time to tell a story under a pine tree, it may already be an old story for the fishermen on Lake Baikal. But we get stuck in that time, and we want to have others stuck with us. Because how can one tell a story if left alone in time?

It is said that heartbeats are like clocks, they measure what we do not want to measure: the sacrifice we make, every time unit, of our life. We gain nothing for our lives from watching time pass. We only lose.

     Yet it is said that even a broken clock is right twice a day. The arms of that clock tell you exactly the time, before it is not exact anymore. Because it is broken. Because it is stuck in its own time.  Are broken hearts correct sometimes? Are they stuck in a place, a goodbye, a name? Should one fix a broken clock? Should one fix a broken heart? Or, just as deciding to get a new clock, get another name, be another place, be ready for another goodbye?

It is said that eternity has boundaries shaped as lips when dry of the wait.  There is no time to waste in eternal waiting. Because there is no time, and there is no kiss. One cannot be stuck in eternity, but can be frozen there.

     Is eternity still flat when one is young and has time? Does an old man ask for time to kiss ample lips, or for eternity bound by dry, unkissable lips? And with the time that does not exist in eternity, will those lips shrink and wrinkle as they would at the center of time?  Will those lips at one time whisper a cosmic whisper and say “eternity is boring, kiss me now!”?

It is said that if we had only one day to live, we would not think about tomorrow.

     Yet, if we were not time-deaf, would we want to know about tomorrow to shape our one day? Does tomorrow count if you will not be there? And if those in tomorrow had only one day to live, would they care about the past and learn about you? Or would they only guess about their own tomorrow?

It is said that the best time is unmeasured time. It is the time one remembers for its passion and quality. Such time is rarefied time, distilled time, and it is when the arms of the big clock fall under the weight of counted but not-cared-for time.

     It is when you remember your first love by saying “it was the year my sister got her piano”. It is when you recall your last love as “it was just before I drowned in those brown eyes and learned to swim again”.

It is said that waiting for the right time is a consolation for those who knew only grief in past times.

     But there is no right or wrong in time. The hope for the right time justifies the wait only. It consoles you even when you know there is only passage or being stuck in. Time is more than minutes, it is careless impatience.

It is said that eventually we learn to forget about time and only recall those for whom time was cut short.  That we keep on walking.

     I have never learned to forget the moment my child lost her time. What I learned is to walk in a new way. A different way. Alone.

June 2, 2013

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013