It's a nice clock, a mechanical, spring driven wind-up alarm clock. I bought it at a thrift store a few months ago, the alarm bit is broken I admit, probably why it only cost me 90 cents. It has it's charm though, more than a little anachronistic in a time of ever more accurate solar-powered, radio-atomic timed, one-millionth of a second accuracy time pieces. In fact, if you forget to wind it up every two days, it'll die altogether, stuck, at least until you wind it back to life and the little but distinctive tick-tick-tick echos through a quiet home again. It sat on top of the TV in the living room the whole time, never causing a fuss, but as the number of boxes grew around me, and the suitcases came out of the basement, it remained, unfailingly tick-tick-ticking day and night.
This afternoon, the final belongings were packed away, labels on their tops, lavender of all colours, reminding the reluctant sophomores volunteers why they wasted away their freshman year the way they did, yearning for a second chance to do it all over again. It was this afternoon that the little black clock was placed into a box, ready to start a new life in my new home. Yet even in this box, it's tick-tick-ticking can be heard, muffled, but letting me know it's still soldiering on.
I'm about to embark on a new chapter of life, leaving the nest that I've called home for the past twelve years, the bed and sheets that protected me from monsters when I was five, and I like to believe still do today. This will likely be my last post from behind the door, for the next time you hear from me, I would have opened this door and entered into a new chapter of my life, and I'm terrified.
All the best,