Knicq

My Tissot.
knicq posted in Knicqisms on December 29th, 2006

Bravery is a tradition. One I failed to uphold recently. It is not something I am proud of; but the last time I updated about something I was not proud of, everybody thought me a hero. So, yes, this is me being a hero again. When required to be brave, I was not. There! I said it. Let the deafening applause drown my shame.

We learn new things everyday; about ourselves and about those around us, about life and those who live it. The moment of truth comes and goes, often leaving in its wake both glory and debris. In the debris of one lies the glory of another. Wars are strange. They promise glory, and bring debris. Civil wars are all the more tragic; these are wars which ought to leave both sides wondering how someone who was a part of who they were collectively can bring himself to inflict such pain and misery on the other, and vice verca. Were one to ask this question of any of the warring factions in a civil war, chances are either would speak with the conviction that is borne out of the knowledge that one is doing the right thing. How, one wonders, can doing the right thing mean causing so much pain?

One is unwise. The first martyr in any war is reason. Often indeed it is the death of reason that heralds a war. It is in the absence of reason that all becomes fair.

Quite evidently, I still do not have anything worthwhile to blog about. Or so it would seem to an untrained eye. The trained eye will of course surmise immediately that I am trying to grapple with the most unbearable pain; that I am trying to put off talking of a subject that needs me to address it, yet finds me at a loss for words. Here goes:

I lost my beloved Tissot a couple of days ago. Time has not stood still since, but it should have. I spent some of my most beautiful days with that Tissot on my hand. It seems unfair for time to continue with its journey when I do not have my Tissot to hold my hand; to reassure me and remind me that seconds, minutes and hours are all beautiful. Time sans Tissot presents a horrifying possibility. My watch was not an ornament. It was my twenty four Tissot hours in a day. It was my companion and confidant. In misery, it ploughed through time with the help of its seconds-hand, waving every now and then at me with the minutes-hand to let me know that the duration of misery would be short-lived; that before long happy hours would be around once again. Once the happy hours did arrive, it deployed the short and sturdy hours-hand at the gate to hold the tides of time back. It was lovely like that.

Two days ago, it decided to desert me. Either that or I forgot it somewhere. I curse myself for being so careless with it. There are watches aplenty, but where am I going to find me my Tissot again?

What if it did indeed decide to desert me? It was a most painful thought. Treachery and betrayal were the first thoughts that sprang to mind. The mind was outraged. It lashed out at time itself and tried to subvert its course – perhaps to try and convince it to go back to when we had Tissot to comfort us, but then time, being the wise sage that it is, sat the mind down and explained to it. It made it understand that my twenty four Tissot hours could not have deserted me willingly. It made me see too that my twenty four Tissot hours would always remain mine; that no-one could steal those from me. Most of all, it made me understand that if a companion that beloved did indeed desert me, it quite possibly had to desert me, and for that it might have had some very good reasons. For once, perhaps, my Tissot needs me to understand, and be its companion of its twenty four knicq hours. Who knows, perhaps, unbeknown to me, time has indeed stopped on the Tissot.

Wherever you are, my dear little master-peice in silver and blue, may you find a most caring wrist to wrap yourself around. May the hours, minutes and seconds continue to be made beautiful through your hands.

Is that a Rolex you have on?

My Tissot was better!