Someone died while coming to work today. We work in the same place, although I don’t know him. And even as I write it, time hangs still in the air. I’m unable to push this memory of a person I never knew to the past tense.
With every minute I feel time gnawing at my toes. I start and bend over. People watch me with twinkling eyes. Somewhere the tut-tut of regretful co-workers. And the pressing deadline drawing near.
My pages are quite blue today. I stare at blue phlegm as I write. But it wasn’t like this in the morning. I was my usual sleepy self, dragging my feet around the fountain, filling water in my bottle, drinking some, re-filling, and praying for the day to end. For tomorrow is Saturday, and I shall have a long, long night with myself – I thought – doing something I like.
But the still air stings me now. For I feel I’m living on borrowed time and someone I may not know might be paying for it.