Even now the table is only dimly apparent. Just 7am. A cool breeze blows in at the kitchen sliding door. The sound of morning birds, distant cars and the clock – as well, of course, as my hands typing on these keys. She tells me to write about what actually happens, to not leave things out, especially embarrassing things. The grass in the backyard is growing lighter. The bananas in the fruit bowl are becoming yellow. But there are pauses and breaks. The day refuses to appear in its continuity. I have spent half an hour away from the table doing other things. I am back again determined to finish. It is 7:47am. The blue of the opposite wall is not an ocean. My wallet. The computer power cord – again, with its green light. The complexity of an envelope, with its folds, buldges and gradations. White passing to valleys of grey. I scan every detail in the hope that something will lead me astray. But the morning is inexorable. It is 7:59am. Now it is 8am.

This entry was posted in Writing and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *