5 ‘o Clock world

Hickory; and the subsequent penultimate dickory and the concluding dock. The rhythmic rodomontade of the alerting siren of the cog-wheel contraption of the dial estimating the every static moment had a rather hypnotic - a rather derisory effect on a quad-ped rodent otherwise scurrying finally about. Contrary to the fight/flight axiom, the rodent rather chose to approach rather than reproach the indiscriminate ticking sound of the precise reminder of the man-made reference point of period.

The beguiling, pendular, oscillatory trance of the whatchumacallit stimulated a burning ascending desire in the rodent, which then acted upon its fetish cold blooded desire and chose a vertical path rather than the preferred horizontal, thereby causing a proximity to the tick.

Whereupon achieving elevation upon the masterful clock which is often associated with the patriarch two generations elder, the clockwork worked like clockwork, to protrude the reminder of the behaviour of tides, as does time herself, both of whom expect discipline in arrival.

As the needles crossed paths, and the minute minute hand blurred past the highest number on the dial, a singular tintinnabulation echoed across the insides of the clock - the sound of the gong bouncing off the internal acoustics of the clock, which thereby caused a robotic mayhem within the order so enshrined in the clock. The rodent, startled by the aural stimulus, then retracted to the earlier contradicted axiom of fight/flight and chose to perform the latter and in a manner most foolhardy, decreased elevation and descended the once-hypnotic apparatus and scurried down and retracted to the burrow from whence it exited, cognizant of the Rubicon just scaled and the fine that demarcates hypnosis and flabbergast.

Aren’t we all but slaves to time? Men - in a rat-race against time? Where does the 5 o’clock world begin? Which under-rug do I have to slither where no one owns a piece of my time? Where can I sleep in so I wouldn’t wake up in the morning just to keep a job and find my way through the hustling mob? Where do I white-noise the sounds of the concrete city on repeat in my brain while another day goes down the drain? We are all mesmerized by the tick of a fatter bank account. Our mouths drool o’er the plate, but get stung by the fork and the knife. The zenith of the allure is plastic, and factitious. So compelled we are by the tick, we do not insure ourselves against the tinnitus of the tintinnabulation.

There a little rat in all of us. We all scurry at the sound of a gong – we all live lives below the underbelly of wasted time – we are all cold-blooded. We thrive on shit and multiply in a geometrical progression.  Where is my 5 ‘o clock world?

Why do the Vogues have to be so vague?

Para-reh-hi-hiii- e- eee-eee-eee-yeah!

The note that could not be heard.

A little, diminutive note in his teens aspired to be a drop in the ocean of a great melody one day. He practiced long and hard to be a resonance of tintinnabulation into the pinna betwixt aural muscles. He quickly learned the steps to dance with his 3^rd cousins and his 5^th cousins and the occasional inbred far off relative minor cousins while he bore his sweat from sun rise to sun rise in his opaque isolation. He learned to draw melodies between the lines of the clef. He learned slowly to hashtag the time, which sometimes came naturally to him.

He pretended not to notice. Not to notice that notes quite similar to him were never picked. They were not the sharpest tool in the shed. They were the left over white noises of a well-placed rest.

He pretended not to notice.

He used to try to stand statue in the lines of a melody as his higher elders.

“Follow in the footsteps of them” Ma would say. While Pa would talk to Uncle Sa and Uncle Ga would just Gah.

He pretended not to notice.

One fine day, he met a note who knew a note who knew a note who wanted a particular note. Instantly, he knew he was the man for the job! After a quick introduction, he quickly acquainted himself with the parts of the other notes in the play and quickly found his relatives nearby. Yet again, by night and by day, he would practice till his was as still as the beat-less heart of an easily phobic man. He was going to nail this. He was going to dance can-can along the clefs alongside his relatives.

This would change his life. This would end the misery of the voiceless nomad. He would forte. He would mezzo Forte, and he would dance the piano. He hadn’t the best pick up notes, but he sure could fit in well in the lines of a melody.

There came the big day. He was excited. He could finally interact to others in a medium. He was excited. He dressed his best black and ink and would feature on every one of the 40 books before the performers. He pressed his suit, and he brushed his feet. He was humbled to see the hard work put in by the rest of his peers, ranging from the Fas to the Ah La Las.

 And thus began the symphony in D minor. 

The symphony started. He took his place at the end of the 20th bar, awaiting the whole clique of musicians to play him. He was ready. He was ready to show. 

The time was his. HIS time was here. His time was now!

Here came the 18th bar..... and 19th bar.....

Silence. 

He stood staring into space. Why was there silence in the 20th bar? Did the conductor have a fit in his arm? Was he mute? Was his misrepresented? Misprinted?

Looking at his chaotic confusion, the note next to him sang the reason. Instantaneously, it was clear to him.

“But You’re only 18, Hertz!”. The words resonated in his mind.

Was he merely a pixel? A blot of ink in the sheet music of a vast encompassing cosmos? Was he the mere carbon matter of a Sagan-esque multiverse?

Death is a pitch. He said while he faded away. Never to be heard. Never to be heard.