Micro fiction


1 minute read

The old man lay in his deathbed, adrift in a whirlwind of fading memories. Random thoughts came to him, like echoes rippling across the stillness of his mind. In the familiar sound of a ticking clock, one such thought spoke to him about the nature of time.

There is no such thing as the present, the past and the future, it said. Time is just a number, like height or weight. We are its prisoners, constantly pushed forward by the relentless invisible wall. But our understanding of time is as incomplete as that of drawings perceiving the sheet of paper they live in.

Everything has already happened; everything is always happening. It is always our first day of school, the moment of our death, the instant of our birth.

Looking at a fly moving along the white ceiling, the old man caught a glimpse of himself on the other side. His lips moved as he released the last breath from his lungs.

“Tomorrow,” he said before parting.

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