The Ticking Man

He never stops running toward the end, always ticking each second, minute, hour with his fingertips. His body is made up of clocks. So powerful is he that he unites the whole world with his ruthless, unwavering iron fist, showing up everywhere on the globe at once. And yet, no one can trace him to his origin. Some people surround him, keeping him close, even strapping him in place, to judge how slow or fast he is going, making him the center of attention. Others, try to run from him. Stuffing their memories in backpacks, filling their hearts with hope and love just in case where they are going is lacking any. He is indifferent. Whether or not they heed him, he follows. Whether or not they listen, he tells all. And eventually, he wearies them all. Their strong hands become gnarled, their joints begin to ache, their hair greys, and their canvases of skin are now painted and dashed with all the scars from things they tried running past. But now, they are no longer young enough, strong enough, to out run him. In the end, Time catches them all.