The sky’s blue, the light is sharp and the street outside is silent. I’ve cleaned and tidied, shopped and written extensively, and I’ve just put on an Elvis Costello CD that I haven’t played in some time. But the light is no different from the light that woke me before 6.30am today, and if all I were to do was to look at how it shines through my windows, I would think that it was still the early morning and the day yet to happen.
And by the clock and the calendar, it’s 7.30pm on Tuesday night, June 9, yet if I stop to let my senses spread about me, to make the world into something recognisable, I would find myself drifting on Sunday evening, the weekend running down towards one last sleep before the working week once again takes over.
But I’m not working tomorrow. Between shift patterns and holidays booked, I’m not working again until Monday next week, and things I’ve anticipated for some time will have happened by then.
For the moment, the lack of something to do, the absence of something needing done, and the light that attaches to no hour of the day that admits itself overtly have uprooted me in time, and I am drifting, caught for some while in still water whilst the future goes on for everyone else at the usual pace: a minute for every minute. If Declan McManus were not singing, how would I even know that time moved?
This has been a report from a bubble of eternity.