The clock tower stands as a sentinel, rising above the square like some stoic timekeeper tasked with marking each fleeting moment. It's not a grand, ornate structure—not the sort of thing you build to impress a monarch—but it has a weight to it all the same. The brickwork is sturdy, almost stubborn, and the face of the clock looks out in all directions, unsympathetic to the pace of student life below. Time marches on, and the clock tower seems content to remind everyone of that fact.
I remembered hearing once that this spot was the unofficial heart of SLU, a gathering place, a meeting point. It’s seen protests and celebrations, tears and laughter. They say students used to dance in the fountain that once stood here, back before the university drained it in the early 2000s. There's something bittersweet about that—the loss of tradition in the name of practicality. The absence of the fountain doesn’t diminish the space, but it changes the way it feels. Where water once danced, there’s now a stillness, a sense of waiting.
I lingered a while longer than I’d intended, letting the clock tower loom over me, its face staring down in judgment or indifference—I couldn’t decide which. I thought about my own relationship with time. Some days, I feel like I'm still sprinting to keep up with it, gasping for breath. Other days, I wonder if I’m moving too slowly, if I’ve let too many moments slip away. The clock tower doesn’t care either way; it just keeps ticking.
As I walked away, I glanced back over my shoulder. The tower stood firm, unbothered by my musings. It had been there long before me, and it would be there long after. There’s something oddly comforting about that.