The Clock of time

There I was, in the city square. My form bore the semblance of a midget. The stack contrast. Every turn was met with ever rising towers, the architecture of great wits. I was helmed in by the towering heights. In a rare turn, a pegion or two would wing its way straight into the upwinding structures, for it could not tell the difference between the open air and the glass paned buildings. It would come down with a slight tumble and slum to the ground. Maimed, it would cease its flight, till nature wrought her healing touch, else it would have to await burial from natures civilized scavengers-cats and dogs.
With streets paved, lined with what seemed like an array of engineered firs , oaks, palms or spruce and weeping willows of perfect symmetry-a silvery avenue, the scene was just right for a cast. Jets of water shot into the sky from a central pool. Folks walked by, with little minding of the suround. Like an army of ants, moving in lines unbroken, they walked across the breath of the earth as it were. Delay was fatal. Vehicles too, moved in perfect array, any delay on one would warrant a horn blow-a resonance to a hum made by a swarm of bees in rage. So all had to move at speeds dictated by the majority. Every one had to be in some sort of hurriedness, at least for the sake of others if not for self.
On one of the skyscraping sttuctures hang a larger than life Gothic wall clock. It moved relentless. Perhaps it controlled the pace of the multitudes. But i took it all in, that which my eyes beheld, I needed to take a second look. Perhapds  I would gain insight. I stared long and hard at the clock, pera venture I would get entranced into what Eistein perceived-slowing of time with an increase in one's motion. Was it the reason for the great haste that was ensuing? Perhaps. Saddened for the lack of an Esiteinian moment, I resolved that I had my filed of play in a different arena. I bumped into a lad or two for the sights and beauties  that betrothed my eyes, but a thousand  apologies did the trick. Yet, had the mass gotten so used to the stack beauty, it no longer appealed to their taste? Or where the errands so great of import, they dared not waste a second to savour the moment?
Monuments that stood,dotted throughout the scape, some on roof tops, building entrances, middle of the square,and along side walks and within buildings too gother my attention. Some had a manly frame, others anything from a beast, to amoury. Sculptors of marble stone or metal. Each was rich in history, a story to tell. They dipicted themes of conflict-war in form of gallant soldiers, generals and military artillery , sometimes atrocious savagery, perhaps giving a backdrop that should never have a repeat for the current and future, or experiences  of the days ebbed. Some depicted the arts and siences, in the form of statues of men of renown in the same trade. There was a theme for every occasion it seemed.
The scenes before me wrought in me the realization that man was hardwired for eternity. Deep inside, we all desire to live forever. We leave the stage of life with great pains, save one whose belief grants him a hope of a life beyond the dreary depths -the grave. In a bid to evade the grip of mortality, men have inverted ways to prolong their stay in the arena. Futile ecsarpade. Perhaps in this one sense man has succeeded to gain imortality, the creation of statues, and perhaps the writing of books. For in them only are the lives of yesterday preserved for today. They live on for an eternity, as it were, in the minds of the living. Perhaps this too may explain the rush-folks have little time to achieve so much. Maybe those with fewer goals in life have it easy, warranting them a little more time to enjoy the short life here on earth.