by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on October 2, 2025
Poetry
I’ve gotten so used to digital clocks it often takes me a few seconds to read an analog clock on a wall. And by the time I’ve read it, the time I was trying to tell has passed, and now I am stuck trying to tell how much time has passed from then until now, instead of telling the time it is now.
How many days do you think there are in the lifetime of an average human? I do not think I care to know. Well, I do, but doing the math would burn up time in the day, which would leave me with much less day than I originally accounted for when I woke up.
In my 20 years on earth, I can’t think of a single second that I have not wasted. It’s far beyond procrastination at this point—it’s more like fear. Or terror. Or dread. I am paralyzed by time. I am not sure what I am stalling for, but you’ll be the first to find out. I am playing chicken with time, and I think I might win.
I don’t know how much longer I can wait. I am done with this waiting game. Can you even be waiting for something if you don’t know why you are waiting, what you are waiting for, and how long you will wait? I think I can wait; it’s not like I have anywhere to be. I think I did once upon a time. I think I had someplace I had to be, and some place I wanted to go. I had a sense of purpose. But that was so long ago. That was before time caught up to me.
In my dreams time stretches out in front of me, and I can see everything that was and everything that will be. In those dreams I have all the time in the world. In those dreams I am weightless, and my heart is steady, and there is no longer a dull ache in my temples. I am free from the hourglass where the sand silently swallows me. I am no longer stuck in the waiting room. But my unconsciousness is also on a timer, and despite my screams, the timeless world I seek refuge in dissolves. And the silence of my dreams is replaced by the piercing chime of my digital alarm clock. It is 8:41 a.m. and I am already late. Oh, how I waste my days.