joi, 21 august 2008
The chronometre, checked twice before leaving, exact, despite the cold weather outside. The motorcycle, freshly painted, in the garage, silvery and flashy, latest design. The other motorcycle, the only one that had a name, old, rusty, available for one trip.
Everything ticking right, the watches, the pendulum, the clocks from a newer generation, all made just for measuring the regular roar of the engine...
Time was there, trapped inside the motorcycle, as if it turned into a clock, swallowing the hours, even the seconds. The road was nothing more than an excuse for the time to pass, flowing back and forth, ending in the same place where it started to be.
Taking a look at the nudes on a wallpaper, he, the great big motorcycle owner, notticed something strange: although they were supposed to be uncovered, thay seemed somewhat dressed, wth nothing interested to show. So was his life, slow-paced, except for the times he rode that old junk he'd still like to call a motorbike.
He jumped on it, as if it was his first time, with no attitude, only with a shyness that left him tired, sick and disgusted with himself. Old as he was, the motorbike was equally old, reminding him that he has just a little time left.
On the road, he quit thinking. He had to act fast, automatically, between those cars. He needed a forest for himself, with no roads, nothing around moving, to make him aware his motorbike couldn't show time accurately. But, even if he felt fast and young, was he really more than th old man, riding, like little kids ride a stick, something...?
Down, on the alley, something ran faster, laughing, with no time to stop. It was time, eating away all the seconds, then, all the hours... leaving behind nothing more to lose.