Watch

Thousands of watch alarms screaming in the night, as if to beg utterance to the horrors of night went un-witnessed by the inhabitants of this abode. The shrill piercing of the alarm drives deep into my soul suddenly, at much the same time it always does each night. However, with each watch found, there is another, in some deep corner of the house, which remains hidden, despite all mortal effort. Beep, Beep, Beep. Their tones are equivalent, but their mournful songs are innumerable. Each face broken, arms crushed, displays in shambles, but still crying out in the same ululating dirge for what seems like ages. It makes one consider, however fleetingly, how they got there. Who, if anyone, wore them? How their appendages were broken and left to scream in the darkness until their last gasp of H2SO4 within the battery carries charge. It quickly draws one to the human condition. Crying out simply to be heard; to give utterance not so much to a thought, but to be known, to be watched. To be known of, to be cared for, to be useful to someone other than themselves. A small malfunction separates the lonely device from the universe for the sheer reason that greater powers have decided that a watch is for nothing but to be watched. But the consistent answer is one of rage. The watch, they say, is beyond repair. Far too cheap to justify repair or individual attention. So the watch goes forth once again. Is it really any wonder why they are forgotten? It is set upon a table and forgotten, by all but the one who listens; who hears their sad, nocturnal pleas There is no solace for this listener of watches, for this listener would rather be a listener to television than to mournful watch alarms.