When the Clock Stops

Photo by Sarika

When the Clock Stops | Parnika Garg

The second hand surrendered first,

mid-arc, mid-breath, mid-beat,

then all the clocks went silent

and the world forgot to fleet.

No meetings left to hurry toward,

no deadlines left to dread,

the frantic buzz of urgency

fell quiet in our heads.

We stood like statues in the street,

then slowly came alive

not running toward the next thing,

but learning to arrive.

The coffee cooled but didn't matter,

emails stayed unsent,

we couldn't chase tomorrow

when the hours wouldn't relent.

At first we felt the panic rise,

the itch beneath our skin,

the desperate need to do something,

to let the next moment begin.

But time, in its stillness, taught us

what motion never could

that being is its own reward,

that presence tastes like should.

We watched our children's faces

without a glance toward the door,

we heard the endings of their stories,

not just the start, the core.

We felt the weight of sunshine,

the texture of the air,

discovered we had bodies

that had always been right there.

The lovers who'd grown distant

found each other's eyes again,

not promising tomorrow,

just inhabiting the when.

And those who sat alone

no longer felt the ache of lack,

for without a future rushing forward,

there was no past to take them back.

The world became a gallery

where every moment hung,

where every breath was poetry

and every silence, sung.

We learned that we were never late,

that we were never early,

that the treasure we'd been racing toward

was here, was always, surely.

When the clock stopped its ticking,

we finally understood

being was the destination,

and the journey, and the good.

Now if the gears should start again,

if time resumes its race,

we'll carry with us what we learned:

eternity is not a place.

It's in the pause between the beats,

the breath before the word,

the moment when we stop becoming

and simply are unblurred.