Time

Time seems to hang suspended at this very moment, dangling on a thread as though its fragile state might last forever in limbo. Time, time is of the essence. The essence of what? In all my years as a Senior English teacher, I still do not quite fathom the depth of that statement, I do not understand how those simple words may sound so deep and intellectual and yet mean almost nothing to me. I suppose time is of the essence though, at least for me in this instant. No time.

Have you ever engaged in an activity you could not slip out of? It just pulls at you, chokes you, an unseen force, maybe stress, maybe gravity. I try to think on random subjects, such as the tying of one's tie. Now, perhaps you do not have this problem, but even I, at the ripe, old age of thirty-seven, find it difficult to tie one properly, always either too fat of a knot or too tight of a noose. No release.

Sometimes I take in my physical surroundings, for instance, the Life cereal box, next to the school-supplied Dell, its screen saver flashing white stars before my eyes, displays the photograph of a young, happy, handsome little boy, so much like my baby boy seemed, before his thread was snipped from life's pattern, its portrait, the big picture. No pressure.

Other aspects of my immediate environment include my vast collection of old, worn, classic books, and the cold, depressingly black walls forcing out the slight warmth of the white borders. Crimson brick chokes out the white of the mortar holding it together. No joy.

Slipping into another train of thought, I focus on Plato's The Republic, pondering the question presented in book VII, The Allegory of the Cave: what around me is truly real? The chair underneath me--is it really a chair, or does it only represent the idea of a chair? What makes a chair a chair? Chair is quite simply a word, a device, created by man to help identify objects of similarity. I feel breathless, thinking upon the idea of true enlightenment. How would one know if they had actually reached the point of nirvana? No truth.

I must go now, the time of limbo is over. I have fallen too low yet remain too high: the bell has rung. Any minute my students should file into the classroom, tiredly intent on placing pencil to paper in hopes that their favorite teacher (and B. B. King fan) will have drawn up a relatively easy, considering their AP status, exam. Well, this exam tests lightly in some respects and weighs heavily in others. What shall they do once they see what time has left dangling in this room so full of symbolism? No life.