FLUX

 The other day.

The air is either too cold or too warm that melts furniture. The faint chorus of tapping keyboards sound like the irregular heartbeat of an undead work place. Walls adorned with sanitizer dispensers like a short hunter's trophy wall. Giant posters that silently scream of productivity and parlance. People in the corridor exchanging pleasantries while rarely making eye contact. Plastic ornamental plants wearing silky dust robes. Derelict grey carpet tiles aging under brown coffee stains and despair. There are too many minutes in between eight cups of tea. Day perfumes turn stale. Six O’clock seems too far.

Yesterday.

Emails ferrying stats and phony deference. Another telephone transforms itself into a harbinger of bad news. Laptop screens look like pale blue vampires short of blood. The sun outside fails to get through the glass cladding. The secretary picks her nose out of habit. Forgotten magazines on a coffee table flips its own pages under a draft. Chairs pushed back into the aisle. Lunch queue moving slowly.

Friday.

Parking spots emptying out. Street lamps on parade. Hands impatiently drumming on steering wheels. A lone white cloud waiting to join its red siblings on the west side. Laughing doves inspect the arch of traffic lights. Tea shops welcome their regular patrons. Rush, scamper. Texting at signals. Love and longing. Grocery lists. Did you forget something? Are there stops on the way? What did you leave behind?

Not every day is 24 hours.