Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

Zoe Migicovsky

Matthew hosted a student radio show. He ran leadership workshops. I had few books with pages so soft and worn they felt as if they were coated in wax. I had a few ideals, but nothing extraordinary. I went to university because I thought I could change myself. I thought I would learn. My first English class taught me otherwise. This story has no thesis statement. Do not try to analyze my meaning, it is not here.

I didn't fall in love with biology; I fell in love with explanations. Philosophy offers nothing but rephrasing the question. Math is a metaphor, only symbols. But biology connects. You can see the reaction when you touch my skin. You can understand.

I met you when there was whiskey in my blood, and gave that as an explanation for my feverish look. I danced despite my emptiness. Faith, beliefs provide structure. I could feel the bone building inside me as we spoke. I knew I had strength. The only thing crushing me was my own ribcage; my heart suffocating inside. A trapped animal.

Have you ever felt that pressure is in your skin? That there are too many layers and it is all too heavy? I don't mean this in a floating depression-ridden sense, but rather, that the hypodermis-dermis-epidermis is too many coats of paint for this piece of art. When you are that bundled up, escape is impossible.

Some say art can kill you.

It is impossible to look at a human being only as a whole. We are many parts, just compiled. If you think about it hard enough, you can imagine that your body does not belong to you. There is so little you control. Systems work together, each cell forms from an old one. I am a collection of growth, a record of my history. Scars form.

You are a part of me now. Your kiss tattooed onto my collarbone, your palm adhered to mine. My body cannot forget you.

So I play another song. Somewhere a clock is ticking. Somewhere a lover is dying. He is somewhere. The seconds control my movement; his presence constricts my lungs. I thought if he was gone I would be free, but a person cannot be built from scratch. Instead our DNA passes on our parents' memories. Their flaws are apart of me, their story is mine now.

Maybe I make the same mistakes. Thinking I am external to my life. Feeling I am in power when (you kissed me, when you left) I am barely able to pretend I am not devastated.

When I met Matthew, I knew why bone was a connective tissue. Maybe it doesn't flow, but it holds you together. I knew he was a part of my body. So we talked. So we danced. The lights were dim, I knew a clock was ticking but I did not check my watch.

There are hundreds of digital images from the first evening. Every angle. I look flushed but happy. You look serene. In none of them are we together.

Some say a photograph captures the truth.