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Three Minutes and Nine Seconds-A Memoir

I have always had a very odd relationship with time. When I was younger I hated timed tests and digital timers that never made a peep until they screamed in your face, a loud beeping sound I grew to hate with a passion. I didn't like looking at clocks, and even the purple, glow-in-the-dark watch my mom bought for me was rarely worn. To this day I refuse to watch the time while reading. I merely stuff my nose in my book for as long as possible until, inevitably, my sister begins yelling at me and I nudge her in the ribs, only to realize that she's been trying to tell me for the last five minutes that it was already time for dinner. I still hate timers, but I have forced myself to wear a watch or look at the clock every so often. Sometimes fifteen minutes will feel like an hour, and sometimes it will feel like fifteen seconds. When focusing on something, it feels like time is whipping past at light speed, ripping seconds and minutes and hours of my day. But when I have nothing better to do, I could stare at the grapes in the crown molding on the ceiling for five minutes and it would feel like a whole hour had already gone by.
 
Tic-toc,
tic-toc,
tic-toc...
Clock face,
staring down maliciously,
moving slowly,
slowly,
very slowly,
oh-so slowly
as it
tic-toc
tic-toc
tic-tocs
away.

 
Time zones used to confuse me unfathomably. I didn't understand any of it until I was almost eleven, when I finally realized what my parents meant by “Greenwich Mean Time.”
I hated that.
I hated that everywhere, all the time, everyone was constantly being chased by time, like it was a little dog trying to bite their ankles.
I hated that everything was always on a schedule, being timed, like my whole life, like everybody's lives, were ticking away on that silent timer that screeches in your ear when it think it might possibly be done. It wasn't that I was afraid of Death, although in a way I suppose I was; it was that I was afraid of living for the clock, within the bonds made by myself, tailored to wrap around me and never let me go. I was afraid of Time tying me up in an empty basement and locking the door so I could never escape.
 
Side effects of time travel may include the following: wish to change the past; hope to alter the future; hatred for the present; uncontrollable itch to travel; erasure of all time, history, memory; potential death.
Make sure to be tested for inflated ego before time traveling.

 
I used to be obsessed with time travel, the idea that I could go back a few hours and fix that one mistake that got me grounded, fix the problems in my everyday life. I loved that it was something through which I could break the laws of time, break the chains that bound me to the big, black clock of my mind.
 
Ticking,
tocking,
ticking,
tocking,
hands

moving,
still
moving,
always
moving,
never
stopping,
ticking,
tocking,
ticking,
tocking...

 
I used to be obsessed with time travel, but I only ever though of the past. The future never crossed my mind, never even touched the little gray cells between my ears, inside of my skull. It merely sat at my feet like a puppy, waiting patiently for a thought, trying to break through the wall I had made with my obsession, my obsession with past mistakes, past punishments, past times. I was afraid of change, even though I never admitted it. I was afraid of what the future had in store for me, of growing up, of making mistakes that I did not have the power to fix.