No Battery Watch

I can't help it, that the watch is still right twice a day in this poor state of his, where he no longer ticks. If I shake it, it ticks a little bit but seems to have no strength left in it to tick further past second 17. I could go and get its battery replaced. I might - after all, I love this watch, and this watch loves me. I'll love it at midnight and it'll love me at midday. Twice a day, one a turn. So simple is the reality of this watch. The rest of the time? An endless argument to the end in itself. As if the end were a living entity, we argue on over what time it is. I asked myself why it were so, and could not help but dream about it - I still felt your anger, but as a dream, was it really your anger or mine, or my perception of it? Questions, haunt my mind at times. Ilude it in others, entertain it with puzzles and mostly keep it ticking. What would be of life were we not to question it? Enjoy the blessing of every fleeting moment? Do I illude myself still with these ideals, or am I any closer to manifesting them? And is the gap between moments finally closing in - is this real life?

I can not cease to wonder about its marvels - and how we build stories around these very same. What I once called the dark corners of my mind I now realize they are more like rooms, filled with happy pictures in which I had forgotten to turn the light on. I wonder if I chose to keep the room dark - so I could remember it whichever way I felt like at the time, or just so I could remember you, without having to look at any pictures, just the essence that was you, just the dream we built together. And how fruitful and layered it was, how deeply I believed in it and how we ruined it all with our rushing - but who can blame a young man for being reckless when it is in our very nature? So much time devote we to trespassing the limits of our recklessness, so how could we ever blame ourselves? Were we grown into this or did we grow ourselves into it? Does a plant really choose the water it receives, but does it not choose which way to face the sun? Is a plant to blame for its own life - and is it not sacred? Every root it grows, enriching its life further and further until it can become a mature, grown tree, ready to bear fruit and face endless winters for the pure pleasure of living through summer.

Once a year, it will bear fruit, once a year, it will be naked, stripped of all its leaves. Once a day it will stare at the stars, once a day smile at the sun. Is it not the same and yet so different? And does the tree really know what time it is, or is it more likely to remember how many fruit it bore?

I remember that tree. And the lights were not on - but the stars never left.