Before the clock stretches out the horizon


Photo by Madeleen Saguid/THE FLAME

TIME WILL soon tell which ground we will walk on, and as we remain clueless about the future yet to unfold, hope is a seed I plant here that I pray to bloom for us.

The arch stands tall over the years, welcoming young individuals with different dreams and bidding farewell to those whose steps have reached the end of the trail. As I stand here in front of the thousand-year-old threshold, the ticking of the clock fades and turns into wishful thinking.

I turn to my friend who is as entranced as I am, taking in the cerulean sky hovering above the arch. These were the dreams we talked about, the dreams we chased down, and to be standing on this holy ground proves that time moves before the hour hand can even emit a chime.

My friend’s continuous chatter tears me away from my train of thought, and I have only noticed now that we are sitting on the stairs in front of the arch. We talk about things that will later turn into memories, words that will remind us of this moment. The future remains uncertain, but the clock does not slow down.

He pulls out his phone from his back pocket and opens the camera, our shoulders colliding like how the arch meets the sky.

Time is the ultimate teller of which passage will unravel hereafter.

In three, two, and one—the camera shutters the same time the clock strikes twelve. F

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