... goes the coffee mug on my desk. It is huge, and still half full of the good stuff. The froth keeps it hot, makes it seem less dense and damps the klunks as my still uncoordinated arm tries to lower the mug through the wood.
It's a funny situation I find myself in today. Time for me is like a weekly calendar in which appointments pleasurable and mundane are clearly pencilled in. Not so precisely as to make me punctual, that's what the computer's for, but I have a good grasp of what's to be looked forward to. This is the fuel I need for the dull days, or the hard days: something good around the corner. And when that's gone, something else. So the really trying times are not so much due to the present, but an eventless horizon.
What's curious is the horizon is looking pretty featureless at the moment: a couple of good gigs, return to uni, some interesting work, I think I've spotted the twist in my novel - but nothing to wish a day away for or to trouble my sleep. Nevertheless, instead of the usual uninspired blankness I have an undefinable hope, not rooted in anything I can think of. It's like the key of my life has been transposed up a fraction of a tone or some dilute pink dye's been slipped into my contact solution.
Speaking of which, off to the opticians. Hopefully I need a top up and distant trees will be crisp again.
No comments:
Post a Comment