The Clock Goes "Tick, Tock"

In both literature and in society, the stories of people being driven mad by the ticking of a clock are nothing short of numerous. This weekend, my mother asked for my assistance in finding a replacement clock for her mother (my grandmother), and her insistence on it being absent of any "tick" caused me to ponder. It seems people are annoyed by the sound of the mechanical repetitiveness of these machines and they can't help but constantly characterize it as "inescapable". Once again, it seems I fall outside the norms of our society as I embrace the other side of that coin. I actually enjoy the ticking of a clock.

That, right there, may throw some for a spin, but there is something about such a rhythmic repetition that feels peaceful to me. As I sit back and reflect on what exactly sparks such an attraction, I am first reminded of my fascination with functional mechanics. Sure, there are plenty of people that share this strong interest in the "way things work", but there are a few of us who have, often discreetly, absorbed it into to the very essence of our identity. For years, I felt it would be my true calling, and I pursued several semesters of university-level coursework in the Mechanical Engineering field. Though, due to lifestyle choices, I have parted ways from that venture, I still maintain a strong interest. As far as clocks are concerned, I remain in awe of how technology of such exactness could date back so many centuries. There is an almost unmatched level of precision causing these machines to not just synchronize within themselves but with millions across the planet. Every tick is a reminder and a testament to the work of thousands of craftsmen, united in a trade that allows people to unite at an exact time and location, even though the majority of them seem to spend their existence in the concentrated solitude of their labors. That tick is their Sistine Chapel, and it's an under-appreciated masterpiece that is often unnoticed in the lives of millions across centuries.

Then, somewhat thanks to a semester-long exploration of William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, I find myself attempting to examine the significance of time from my own perspective. That's what that ticking is, the passing of time, marked by the soothing tick of its motion. To a degree, I have adopted the mentality of Mr. Compson. Though his son, Quentin seemed obsessed with the inverse, Mr. Compson attempts to reassure him that time is the healer of wounds. I could talk about that amazing piece of literature for ages, but, for now, I'll just throw that little tidbit out there and continue. I feel soothed by the sounds of a clock as they are the auditory reminder that, no matter what good or ill transpires, time continues, unaffected. I can't think of a single person of whom that could be said. Time is the one thing that seems not to be affected by anything. Though it's coming from a theoretical place, it's beyond perseverance, and I think it's admirable. I embrace that tick because it reminds me that I am able to distance myself, measurably, from any harm in my past, that I am always moving forward, and that I am able to grow closer to the immeasurable opportunities in my future. 

Some may call me an odd duck (and, yes, I do even find some joy in their quack), but I have been known to sometimes sleep with an ticking clock close to my head. Some may feel it traps you into a constant awareness of time, unable to break free, I just can't help but find tranquility in the way the clock goes "tick, tock."