Soon after the moment of my birth, I was drawn into a gunshot marriage with an extravagant queen. It was a forced and unwilling union of two opposed souls. From a young age, I was required to give in to the every whim of this selfish matron, to dote on her highness in shameless subservience. Harsh, spoiled and stubborn, the maiden cared neither for my charms nor my graces. I was to her as a hound is to a hunter, a serf to a vassal. We grew up together but apart, conjoined but alone. And over time, our union has become only more estranged. I have grown incensed by her very existence.

The maiden’s name is Time. And my marriage is strained. The bottom line: I can no longer tolerate her fiendish tricks.

This last Sunday, I have decided, was the final straw. I awoke in a cold sweat at 3 a.m. to find that once again, she had robbed me, and further, she had enchanted my clocks. She had enchanted all the clocks. As a result, I once again lost sleep over her unchecked treachery.

The clocks are her minions, carrying out her evil plot with unthinking, mechanical ease. Their illusion is Constancy and Precision. Their reality is programmed deceit. A minute is never a minute, an hour never an hour. Empirical tests be damned, clocks are a supernatural phenomenon, commanded by the reins of a harsh and unyielding master, one who, sadly, is my other half.

I cower in fear at her drive, her inescapable march toward the future. Time is an inevitable, invincible juggernaut. She is selfish, reckless and demanding in her pursuit of the future. Time waits for no man, least of all me.

It is said that Time flies. But time is no falcon, no eagle. It is instead a pigeon — a dirty rat with wings. She does not soar, she cannot soar. Her flight is clumsy, her feathers ruffled. She scrounges desperately in the park for breadcrumbs, dwells on useless things that are soon devoured.

And though she is a queen, Time lacks the social graces that are typical of her position. Time is never there when I need her, but when I don’t, she overstays her welcome. Even worse, she is unpredictably unpredictable. Like a clever femme fatale, she draws me in with the promise of plenty — for one fleeting instant I have all the Time in the world — but holds the pistol to my back as she whispers her sweet nothings. Time always gets her way.

Is it possible to ignore her? Is it possible to deny our marriage and escape to the land of the infinite? As much as I may wish for my freedom, divorce requires two signatures. Thus, we are wedded for an eternity.

In one small act of defiance, I can escape from her grasp, for an instant — I can take all the photographs in the world. Or I can go to Sleep, my mistress, and in her arms, Time does not exist. But Time knows. Her minions, the clocks, sound a morning alarm, a harsh and unforgiving bugle call to rouse me from my tryst.

I am forever entrenched in an un-heroic, matrimonial battle with Time and her followers. It was one that I could not avoid, and now is one I cannot escape. The best I can do, with my castle under siege from the hoards of her army, is to accept what she takes but acknowledge, also, what she gives.

Time, you can have the hours I spend playing video games. You can have my accumulated years on the couch, watching TV or in theaters, in a daze, staring at movie screens. You can even continue to make me late for everything and continue to force me to turn in my papers after they are due.

I thank you, however, for the slow passage of tragic events which keep me wrapped in quiet reflection. Thank you for the moments spent looking at beautiful scenery, and, because it helps my sense of security, thank you for continuing the illusion of constancy.

Given all your demands, Time, I will still cherish what you give me. I will not waste you.

Socrates has said “If you get a good wife, you’ll be happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.”

Tell Nat stories of Time-related mishap at nat.hillard@stanford.edu.