The main clock at the station strikes eight. … I wait. I wait, and wait, and wait. What if… What if I like to wait; I like to know that it is coming. Spring, the wave and the taste of tobacco just after I inhale the cigarette; the notion of the coming pain just after the moment I hit my toe on the corner of the bed; the screams downstairs when my father used to come back home, precise as a clock, I never knew when it would stop; the warmth in my legs that comes with the forth glass of wine and the dizziness that brings the sixth one; the bus. And then, it comes. The moment passes as if it never happened, leaving only a memory as if it was a dream. Is the excitement of waiting bigger than the joy of it happening? Is the actual fright for something to come is bigger than the… People are afraid to die, I never understood why. They anxiously wait their whole lives for this one moment that reverts everything into nothing. For me, death is an eternal routine of non-existence, nothing changes, forever.  I have always wanted to fly. Jump off a cliff and be reborn as a bird. That is what I wish. Only that I have another purpose in this life, someone to live for. It makes my heart fly and it’s enough for now. It is enough to make me a part of this world that works just like a clock mechanism. Everyone run and run, and run, all playing a part in holding this brain-washed society together. I am a part of it too, except I am aware of it.


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