Biological Clocks
23rd August 2009

October 22^nd – The day I ended it all

With each ticking second my life receded into oblivion. The hot rush of whiskey that ran its course down my throat served only as a signifier for my current situation: the realisation that I had wasted my life had occurred while I was physically wasted. Wine may have been more appropriate. Don’t ask me how I’m no good at metaphors.

Where had my life gone? Twenty years ago this question was in the present tense. I always promised myself that I would never get to the end of my mortal existence having regrets and a superfluous string of hypothetical ‘what ifs’ drifting around inside my brain. I always swore - to me, to everyone – that my life would be rich with excitement, success, wealth, loves and various other magical words that one uses to justify a fulfilled life.

Now, not only had that ship sailed but it had reached the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in record time and sunk to the bottom killing all on board. What I mean is that I was empty of accomplishments and I felt this pang of uselessness, mixed with depression.

I should have been taking pills, but instead here I was with a whiskey and coke.

Let me fill you in some more:

They’re called Biological Clocks; cleverly named after our own internal timers that trigger key events in our lives: puberty, menopause, death (all the gross stuff really). For some inexplicable reason they became compulsory some thirty years ago. So now everybody has one. Forever.

What started out as a harmless Internet website had flourished years after into a ubiquitous tool more ‘necessary’ for society than mobile phones or television; they became a part of everyday living.

They’re, essentially, measuring devices that begin at the start of a person’s life – from the moment they’re born to be exact. And they count down the years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds until their death.

From the moment you are born, you know exactly when you are going to die.

One is required to wear this device as they would a regular watch; ever knowing of the exact moment when they’re life will end.

See, the theory goes like this: if a person knows the date and time when they will die throughout their entire life then all fear of death should be eliminated. You simply becomes used to the idea of knowing how much time on Earth you have. Much like having a schedule to keep to, a compulsion is felt to complete entire life goals before the Clock reaches zero.

And this is where the theory falls apart. It is designed to distract people from the fear of death by their succumbing to the knowledge of it as though it is nothing. That way they should then be free to concentrate on life as they are living it.

Sounds good, doesn’t it?

Unfortunately it hasn’t quite worked out that way. With religion on the ever-increasing righteous path to non-relevancy in this era people are struggling to have comfort in any sort of afterlife. With no proof of what lies beyond that impenetrable thicket of uncertainty the fear of dying is still very much a problem. And because people are still afraid of death, life is no longer a ‘blessed gift’ but a race against time; a reach to the finish line with as many things ticked off our goal list as possible. Panic consumes the individual. Panic consumes me. And so I pour another shot.

It may seem far-fetched having compulsory watches that count your life away. How could something like that possibly work? Life, by its very nature, is unpredictable. With varying life-expectancies and premature deaths by illness, accidents, war etc. how is it possible to be able predict with 100% accuracy how long a person has to live?

In a civilized world which has become obsessed with health and dietary habits it probably won’t shock you to learn that day-to-day living has ceased to be a free-flowing experience and has shifted into a mechanical and highly-scheduled affair.

Thanks to innovations in technology that have allowed themselves to be the grandmasters in everything we eat, society has become docile to the demands of – what used to be fun – machines deciding what foods to eat and how much to consume, and when and how long to exercise; filling our days with strict regimes that we believe – thanks to clever advertising – to be entertaining yet beneficial at the same time.

Our own internal clocks have become set by daily chores that everyone else partakes in, at the same time. We are no longer in control of the following: when we eat our meals, when we go to the bathroom, when we crave a holiday, even when we fall in love.

We think we’re in control of these aspects of our lives, but the years of mental conditioning have ensured that that freedom has been whittled away from our psyche.

This is how our countdown clocks can accurately tick away our life. And it’s never wrong. Never. But I intended to make it wrong.

So what about unexpected occasions, such as people being murdered? No such thing anymore. With increased security at all public sectors and a rise in surveillance, there is nowhere to run from the authorities. Okay, people used to chance it years back when the idea of being monitored everywhere was still something people were succumbing to. Some people didn’t want to believe it; like it was just a manifestation of some bad science fiction story.

But when stories of people being arrested after attempting murders in the most secluded spots were published in the locals and nationals people became too paranoid to break the law. Generations later, the idea of committing any sort of crime didn’t even cross the mind. Or if it does, it’s never been taken any further. People have even resorted to having themselves arrested for thinking such thoughts.

What about suicide? Again, not something that occurs in this day and age. People are living to their expected lifespan and with promoted “healthier” living and “cleaner” environments, combined with the promise that, one day, civilization will reach the peak of aesthetic perfection the idea of being depressed seems almost obscene.

Those that do feel a bout of depression soon turn to their doctor for a prescription of factory-produced narcotics guaranteed to put the happy back in their lives.

So what’s my excuse? My will to live has been all but sapped. In my prescription-free state of mind the thought of plunging back into a docile existence, breathing alongside co-workers and family members as we shuffle along in our mortal ways, keeps me away from doctor recommendations. My alcohol-induced perspective has given me a new slant on life.

With no control over my own destiny, my own date of death, even my own bowels to some extent the futility of existence has dawned upon me these last few months. Hence why I’m writing this down. I want to remind myself - if and when I do slip back into ‘reality’ and predictability - how I really think and feel and not how some smiley-eyed cretin on TV tells me how to feel.

But I’m not sure how much more I can take of this pedestrian living; this chore known as existence no longer makes any sense to me...

..and now here I sat with a half-empty glass of whiskey gradually going warm in my hand as the dead body became cold on my kitchen floor.

Strange, really; I always expected corpses to look a lot more relaxed. Almost as though they were just asleep. Asleep with several knife wounds about their person. The man on my floor looks as though his last moments alive were particularly uncomfortable.

Why did I do it? Oh, lots of reasons. And yet no reason at all I suppose.

In an era of highly-fixed schedules and predictability what better way to express ultimate freedom and spontaneity than by taking a life? Society wasn't expecting it. The man on the floor wasn't. And up until recently neither was I.

I looked down at him. He was toned, almost muscular. His physique suggested he had gym appointments, while his face and skin tone said that he had a tanning salon that would notice he was missing. I crouched by his side and grabbed his wrist.

His watch was still going. That puzzled me. It made sense to me that the device would work by syncing up to your own heart beat. A detection that the heart stopped indicated the person was dead, and so the watch would cease in whatever time it was at. This was not the case.

The countdown on his wrist showed he still had a number of years left yet. Knowing I had intervened in the established way of life felt thrilling. Yin and Yang danced about the scene; he was dead while I felt more alive than ever.

It was time to turn myself in; to give myself up to the authorities. The thought caused me some degree of happiness. To be able to utter the words “I've killed someone” to an officer of the law would mean the end. The end of my humdrum existence.

The last of the nectar sank down my gullet and I slapped the glass onto the kitchen table. I imagined how the situation would unfold: my arrest, news cameras, police interviews, stories about me. I headed for the front door.

I'll be on the front pages in no time.