Playtime is over. The dust has settled on yet another brief weekend and the house falls silent of all weekend sound. The lawnmowers and leaf blowers and splashes in the pool, all tucked in ready for bed.
Only in times of silence like this do you begin to understand how incredibly loud nothing can be. The ice machine clunks and plunks. The water jug burps and gurgles. But that's not the extent of it. Life moans and creaks all around from everywhere and nowhere at once, like ice cracking under your feet.
The walls give a subtle snap. I can almost hear them sliding ever so slightly. Monday morning will find the house full of hustle and bustle. The plaster and wood will be frozen in place, but I'm certain there will be evidence of their slow, glacier like advancement toward the center of the room. There will be incremental slivers of floor missing. It may only be a tiny fraction of space but every square millimeter accumulates over enough time. There will be fractures in the plaster and the windows will be slightly more difficult to open...not necessarily by noticeable volumes, but the change is inevitable.
The walls are closing in. They stalk by night, and the sound of their approach is deafening.
As I lay here in relative peace despite the nagging silence, every time I hear a creak or moan I deploy Jazz Hands to find that it briefly halts the slow, inward advancement of the surrounding walls. I can't jazz my hands all night long, unfortunately...I fear that this practice merely postpones the inevitable. Monday will surely come, and life will seem slightly more cramped and full of nonsense than it did the day before.
Today's Jazz Hands felt claustrophobic. Day one-hundred and eighteen complete.
Only in times of silence like this do you begin to understand how incredibly loud nothing can be. The ice machine clunks and plunks. The water jug burps and gurgles. But that's not the extent of it. Life moans and creaks all around from everywhere and nowhere at once, like ice cracking under your feet.
The walls give a subtle snap. I can almost hear them sliding ever so slightly. Monday morning will find the house full of hustle and bustle. The plaster and wood will be frozen in place, but I'm certain there will be evidence of their slow, glacier like advancement toward the center of the room. There will be incremental slivers of floor missing. It may only be a tiny fraction of space but every square millimeter accumulates over enough time. There will be fractures in the plaster and the windows will be slightly more difficult to open...not necessarily by noticeable volumes, but the change is inevitable.
The walls are closing in. They stalk by night, and the sound of their approach is deafening.
As I lay here in relative peace despite the nagging silence, every time I hear a creak or moan I deploy Jazz Hands to find that it briefly halts the slow, inward advancement of the surrounding walls. I can't jazz my hands all night long, unfortunately...I fear that this practice merely postpones the inevitable. Monday will surely come, and life will seem slightly more cramped and full of nonsense than it did the day before.
Today's Jazz Hands felt claustrophobic. Day one-hundred and eighteen complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment