I wonder where everybody is right now. The second-last person at work walked out at 4:45pm. I'm still here, waiting for my shift to end. There's absolutely no one here on Sunday evenings. They're out somewhere, doing things that people do on weekends. Watching a movie, perhaps. Or going for a play. Spending time with family. In here, I can faintly hear honking cars on a nearby road. Some honks are shrill, some are dull, and most invariably last longer then two seconds.
But in here, where the blinds are drawn shut, you hear few other sounds. The hum of the air conditioner, inaudible on any other day of the week, creates a noise that is almost visible. I hear the tap of a woman's heels in the corridor, and the sound disappears as suddenly as it appeared. A cell phone rings, and is quickly answered, or disconnected. The only evidence of the world outside are the sounds. Even they seem strange, as if they should be somewhere else.
How must living in a lighthouse feel? Is it like Sunday at 5:30pm forever there? How do you understand yourself in isolation? How does one live comfortably with oneself when you know what's out there, and that you could be doing any number of things? I could be at a play, or a movie, or playing chess with and losing to a friend. I could be eating Pav Bhaji with a friend. Or teaching one how to drive, and holding on for dear life as the friend hits the accelerator, thinking it was the brake.
Sunday evenings are full of possibilities. They're far too precious to spend thinking about what you'd do on a Sunday evening.