Story
Day in the life of...
It is dark. Outside dawn�s evolving symphony is building moment. Street light diffused illuminates a small halo upon the fabric of the blinds. I am laying on my back, legs and arms spread-eagled on the bed. It is probably, but not definitely about 6. I do not recall when the dreams turned into the furious mechanics of a conscious brain. I don't recall becoming aware, just of being awake. I flick through the images of this mind, searching back for the closing moments of last night.
It pretty much started on the train with the hockey guys, then the predictable turn of events. What is the last thing I recall as conscious merges to black? What did I subsequently do ...
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the describing of is a particular talent. I can only recall the intent.
My audience definitely wasn't the sweet ex Mrs. Nunn, location currently on this earth in diametric relation to yours truly. There is talk, I keep hearing that she is about to squeeze another dual nationality citizen into this crowded world. Last I heard half the family where at fever pitch and all you could hear in the village after Emmerdale was the furious clicking of knitting needles. I wish only good things for her.
I roll over, body exhausted but with conscious ramping towards overdrive images tumble through mind�s eye, ideas, whole paragraphs of unwritten text, books, beautiful faces, work, war, weeping faces, rouge cheeks, hopeful faces, children. I squeeze close my eyes and desperately reach out for darkness, one hour, more or less before the alarm.
Pressing sleep gives me eight minutes peace, the best sleep of all night. After reaching over and deftly pressing sleep three times and five ...
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logo imprinted on the flap. It carries everything I need it to. First we have six bottles of diet coke, it's addictive, then a large silver flask and a 660ml bottle of milk. I much prefer making it up myself from powder. Back into the hallway with 30 seconds give or take to spare, hoist bag over right shoulder so it sits on my left hip and out the door we go. The train station is conveniently 300 yards down the road and the primary reason I brought this compact two bedroom with its own karma friendly rock and pebble strewn garden - the previous owner being a middle aged Japanese women. It takes 185 seconds from front door to platform which heralds two simultaneous arrivals, me and the ...
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CITE THIS PAGE:
Story. (2011, April 18). Retrieved November 30, 2024, from http://www.essayworld.com/essays/Story/98150
"Story." Essayworld.com. Essayworld.com, 18 Apr. 2011. Web. 30 Nov. 2024. <http://www.essayworld.com/essays/Story/98150>
"Story." Essayworld.com. April 18, 2011. Accessed November 30, 2024. http://www.essayworld.com/essays/Story/98150.
"Story." Essayworld.com. April 18, 2011. Accessed November 30, 2024. http://www.essayworld.com/essays/Story/98150.
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