One minute passed at one minute past

Where does all the time go? Sixty seconds have already happened, lost back there somewhere, and I’ve barely begun. Damn this ceaseless, onward march.

I know, I know it all very well, via more years of experience than I wish to catalogue right here and right now, since we’ve only got a few minutes left. I have always been an expert in platitudes and proverbs, meaningless words - always the most meaningless - delivered to the carefully chosen onlooker, the one who possesses the shortest attention span. Is that you? I hope so, because if you have another sixty seconds to spare, another minute to humour an old fool, would you consent to spending the dying moments of the hectic annual whirlwind in my company, and let me share this brief story with you?

Once upon a time, the rules were simple: you were supposed to look forward, not back. Forward, not back. But I’ve got this pain in my neck, a creaking in my tired bones that makes me think I might be stuck in this rear-facing position possibly forever, though possibly only until the new day dawns. Besides, I hate counting upwards, and counting down is so much easier. So much easier.

Five, four, three, two … what comes after two?

I know every metaphor under the sun, as well as a few more under the ground, and they spurt forth unawares like sudden unexplained geysers. Here’s one: I always want to be the person leaping from the precipice, attached to terra firma by nothing more than a barely trustworthy rope, frayed and still fraying. Here’s another: instead, I am the one who steps nervously off the kerb, looking every which way except directly into the eyes of the driver whose vehicle’s brakes have failed. He too was at a crossroads, but his satellite navigation had given up the ghost. All he could do was to put his foot down, screw his eyes tight shut and pray to every single god he had ever read about in the pages of his favourite childhood encyclopaedia.

Three years ago - I don’t remember, I probably slept through it, grimacing at the world as it let off flares of distress and abandonment into the night sky’s phosphorus glow. Two years ago, the world came to me from every angle and every time zone: I celebrated, commiserated and cogitated at almost hourly intervals, trapped momentarily in the satellite’s glare, listening for unearthly crackles from all points of the compass. One year ago, I could barely believe I was still here, so I sat in my room soaking up the sounds of a carousing city, listening to favourite songs, and looking into a distorted mirror to see what shape of reflection gazed back at me. This year, I will be looking at the fireworks, whilst I hold hands with the present and smashing every timepiece within reach.

Put the clock down on the table. Take off your watch. Surrender every last second. Break the hands, tear the faces in two, rip the mechanics to shreds, and let the shards of glass slither through your fingers. Time stops here. Seize the moment and hold. Hold, hold, hold.