Day By Day

Drip…Drip…Drip.

There’s nothing like waking up to a dripping tap. The incessant annoyance that seems to fade just as you open your eyes, then crescendo into a brain cracking stake driving itself deeper between your skull as soon as you close the windows to your soul.

In your minds eye, the tap is no longer below your eye level but above, you gaze up and watch that blown up water drop gather at the edge of the tap, appearing from the black abyss of the pipes, grow, halt, tremble, fall. Falling, falling, seemingly on top of you, the coming down with a mind shattering CRASH right besides you, destroyed, with bits of water flying in every direction and the only evidence for its existence were scattered remains.

The longer those eyes are closed, the louder the dripping will get until your very world is drown by that one water drop hitting cold porcelain, each drip becomes a hammering, BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Petrified, you open your eyes. And once more, the sound of the dripping tap recedes, almost lost in the noise of life.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
It’s time to get up.

Tap…Tap…Tap…

Black leather pumps beat rhythmically on warm timber floors, twirling in front of the mirror. What ever shall be worn today? A smooth silk shirt slips gentle onto winter chapped skin, smoothness on smooth, and white against creamy gold, bordered by black beady buttons. Black hair tumbles neatly on to the shoulders and lies there, arranged in disarray. All this tucked at the ends with neatly arranged folds into a non-descript black skirt, cotton and silk mesh. Neat, simple colors or rather, the lack of.

A small hand runs down those curves once again, straightening out imaginary wrinkles and picking at illusionary loose fibres. Those hands liked the feel of smooth, downy material on tired, strained hands. The grooming ends, but those hands know no rest. They turn and grab the silvery white bag propped up against the door, briefly scrunching in distaste. The bag would suit a party more, too flashy and un-elegant for this attire. But there was no time to amend this breach of dress code. Work now.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sharp, crisp footsteps disappear amongst the din of the traffic.

Rumble…Rumble…Rumble…

The subway was rather crowded today, per usual. Sardines of black suits and white shirts crammed into their tins. The platform was milling with people, some looking into a book, some looking through a newspaper, some burying their heads and minds into a brightly highlighted report, adding a dash of color to the otherwise monotonous colour scheme of the day. News, communication, connection.

No one notices the little boy who looked just a bit lost, a bit frightened and a bit filthy. But the train is filthy. The people are not. And yet, they seem to sigh in relief as they lean against a pole or door, not remembering that only that morning, they had spent much effort in smoothing out the invisible wrinkles, while now, wrinkles crack and branch from every movement.

That pair of black pumps could be heard before it was seen in the forest of legs, its tapping tempo increasing as the warning whistle sounded for its tin’s departure. A small spring, a flurry of skirts and ah! She has reached her reserved spot, nestled against her peers, blending into that web of black and white contrast. The doors slide close, sealed with a click and off they go, on another adventure to work.

Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.

The train picks up speed and distances itself from the loading dock.

Tick…Tick…Tick…

The second hand seemed to move extra slowly today. People waded about in slow-motion. The air seemed thick, the ground unsubstantial, gravity indefinite and light came and went in hazy streams that trickled in and out between the moths beating in slow motion against the lamps. The piercing shrills of the telephone beating against weary eardrums were dull. The computer beamed out a sleep inducing pillar of blue light against eyes that reflected the light right back. Nothing was entering. Disconnect for today.

The clock all but halts its painful process. Eyelids hid glazed over eyes. Just another day to dream. All of a sudden, time speeds past. It’s sunset, time to go now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Life’s just passing by.

-Blood