The Weight Of What We Carry

On the top of the wall, there it hangs. A large clock with it's disturbing sound.

There he was, sitting on that comfy couch. The only thing that was there on the floor of that room. It looks like a newly built house, half furnished, painted with white. Surrounded by those empty walls, looking at the only thing moving.. It is his large clock hands. The clock that he took from his previous apartment.

The clock keeps repeating its ticking sound with every second, while he can hear it multiple times. Every "tick" is echoed through this empty space. He stairs to the wall without making a move. But, his mind is travelling to places. It is the weight of what we carry - he said. He kept going back to that sentence as if it touched him deeply.

In his mind, it felt more of a sentence that he came across, rather than one of his own made up thoughts.

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