Time is the Master

I'm living in a country where "on time" is considered late. And late isn't even considered an option. At first, I just thought it was something they told us at my company's headquarters to scare us into submission, but I've come to realize that everyone's watch is set 15 minutes ahead. Good thing I don't wear one. 

Every day, at ten til the hour and on the hour, little chimes sanction the end of one class and the beginning of another. The melody is only on a 10 or 15 second loop, and albeit, aurally pleasing. However, I often get the feeling that it's darling little chirps are sinister baby clowns mocking my every move.

 Like clockwork, I've fallen into this pattern of living my life in 50 minute increments. I literally plan everything I need to do to the minute or else that sweet little chime will go off and who knows, maybe I will end up freezing up like a malfunctioning robot and spontaneously combust. I guess as long as it's in between class...

Time truly is the master, but when is it not? My photography teacher told me "true artists don't wear watches." I haven't worn a watch since hearing those words (from my former pregnant lesbian teacher who had an affair with one of my high school classmates and decided to photograph the encounter and leave the negatives in the darkroom). Am I more of an artiste, or maybe just a little artier? I sure hope so (sarcasm). Either way, I'm perpetually bound by the constructs of time, even if I choose to live clock-free, only watching the rise and fall of the sun and moon like a goddamn hippie or someone who decides to live on an Indian reservation (another throwback to a high school teacher).

Truth be told, the majority of this post was for humor's sake. I am perfectly content with my time constructed (and constricted) life. 

I did have a sadistic vision of lighting that little chime clock on fire and laughing while ritualistically dancing around it in the lobby this morning. Laughing right in its round little face.