I went off the tracks today. No reason in particular. There was just no rhythm. No flow. No continuity.
Time was disjointed. The seconds slowed down. At one point during the day I looked at the clock on the monitor. It was just past noon, 12:25, I think. When I looked at it what seemed like ten minutes later, it was still 12:25.
Every few minutes I'd stare at the clock, willing it to move quicker, dammit, but it wouldn't oblige me. On screen there was a cricket match playing, and I wondered how players could keep going year after year. Don't they tire? Don't they wake up one morning, groan, fumble out of bed and look in the mirror and rhetorically ask themselves, "why must we play so much?"
On fitful days like this, a mad fever usually strikes. Today was no different. Wonderful fever. Burnt my upper lip with the heat of each exhaled breath (only a slight exaggeration). It usually spreads to the rest of the body so it feels like everything is hot. It made the wait interminable. I wondered about Serena Williams, who overcame a damaged rib to win the Australian Open final. All I had to do was wait till 6 o clock. But still.
How does one think or get any work done? You think about lost weekends spent at work. You plot escape to recover from this breath that singes. You imagine cuddling up under a blanket. You imagine being somewhere else. Anywhere else. I dream of snow in New York. I dream of cooking a rice dish. Of making complicated sandwitches filled with pesto for a friend. Of the smell of fresh cookies.