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Title: "Weeks"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG, if that.
Notes/Summary: Attack of Son of Revenge of Bride of the Prompt Table! This one is a short meditation on the passage of time. I've sort of left it open to interpretation. It reads a little differently depending on who you think is speaking. I find something about that strangely appealing...
Time is arbitrary. We mark it by astronomy, it’s true, but the points we choose aren’t written in anywhere the fabric of the universe as far as I can tell. Our years are always just a little bit off, and our months don’t follow the moon anymore. A week is just seven sunrises – or maybe sunsets? – but we’ve named those after gods who share names with other planets whose days and years look nothing like our own.
I try to keep this in mind as I tear another sheet from the calendar, crumple it, and drop it in the bin.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG, if that.
Notes/Summary: Attack of Son of Revenge of Bride of the Prompt Table! This one is a short meditation on the passage of time. I've sort of left it open to interpretation. It reads a little differently depending on who you think is speaking. I find something about that strangely appealing...
Time is arbitrary. We mark it by astronomy, it’s true, but the points we choose aren’t written in anywhere the fabric of the universe as far as I can tell. Our years are always just a little bit off, and our months don’t follow the moon anymore. A week is just seven sunrises – or maybe sunsets? – but we’ve named those after gods who share names with other planets whose days and years look nothing like our own.
I try to keep this in mind as I tear another sheet from the calendar, crumple it, and drop it in the bin.
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