Clocks have been cropping up everywhere, the way little slivers of grass seem to peek through the scorched dirt after California gets dumped with sapphire rain, and suddenly the dry hills don’t look so thirsty any longer. Or it just seems that way, through the life-giving, blue lens of water.


About a month ago, I began writing a new story which involves a clock with eight numbers. Or seasons, rather.

Then, about three weeks ago, I wrote a poem about two clocks: one clock is for me, and the other one is for history.

And finally, this past week, I started reading The Bone Clocks.

I just put one and one and one together and realized that perhaps life is capable of synergy.

This realization comes after a week where I have hardly written and hardly slept and my faith in humanity was unusually low so I watched those “stupid” but hopelessly addicting videos of puppies and cats and babies because sometimes a reminder that things such as furry, serotonin-rich dog faces exist can help lessen the dregs of melancholy.

I tried to write yesterday and churned out a meager two pages.  I spent the better half of my writing time watching as the words seeped into the lines as if the ink were melting and dripping, and the white and black contrast gave me a headache, and then I realized I had better try to get some rest.

But today I re-visited my poem, and read The Bone Clocks, and wrote over my daily quota, and I cherish this repose.

Sometimes it feels like a farce, that I sit here in a room and write a made-up story and read a made-up story, while the world exists and goes on, spinning and hurting. But I’d like to think I can contribute to the light, and perhaps I can help heal a soul who has been burned.