Seven

It’s Wednesday. The middle of the week, in the middle of the school term, in the middle of the year, and roughly in the middle of a wearisome decade.

Students stare blankly at walls and wonder what will become of them. Office workers type up memo after memo reminding their colleagues to remind them tomorrow to check the other memo that they’ve already lost. The people down in admin are just shuffling papers from one file to another, then back again.

Even spiders rest in yesterday’s cobwebs. Provided they weren’t blown away.

The mugs of hot chocolate are never quite deep enough, the heaters hot enough, or the scarves wrapped tight enough. The world has found a cosy state of discomfort, and there’s nothing being done about anything.

The music is all in a different language. The people around you all speak far too slowly in a tongue you should understand, but don’t quite. There are decisions to be made, there is work to be done. Projects to continue, plans to undertake. But none of that is really what we’re after.

Somehow, drooping eyelids are more powerful than aspirations, and soft pillows more persuasive than everything we’ve worked so hard for so far. Every ounce of determination trickles away at the proposition of a very long nap.

We’ll perhaps try again in the morning.

This entry was written on August 8, 2007 by Alice Albert. It is about/includes mentions of language, music. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.