Nothing needs to be done, nothing is urgent, no one is waiting.
You don't have to be anywhere.
There is no plan, no agenda.
It's free time.
It's quiet.
Somehow the air is even quiet: thick, heavy, still.
The seconds from the clock move loudly through it,
rupturing it with an awkward clunk, over and over,
splitting it for a brief moment before it snaps shut again.
Weighted, expectant spaces hang between the clunks.
It starts to seem as if the spaces between are the loud parts:
the thick, full silence pressing against the ear drums,
closing in, until the tick of the clock bounces it away;
a moment of relief, and then again the silence-pressure.
You screw up your nose, mouth and eyes slightly:
a flinch, a squint, trying to keep the quiet-noise out,
pulling the ear drums back inside,
tilting the head sideways,
trying to find a free slice of air.
Free time.
The heavy, closed air sinks down between all the objects around,
sitting in the gaps, glueing the whole scene together.
Objects, still, no movement.
A drip forms on the mouth of the tap, slowly,
grows, slowly, hangs, too heavy to stay,
falls onto the metal sink: thung/snap.
Silence.
You're sitting still, rigid, but the eyes dart between objects,
fast, searching, checking,
as if they might find a clue there for what should happen now:
what you should do,
some kind of purpose.
Body tense, alert, ready to act.
Eyes checking objects:
coffee machine, handle sticking straight out,
the handle you hook from left to right, firmly,
push at the end, cup underneath, check the water, switch the button.
You don't want coffee.
Washing machine door, slightly ajar, where hands reach in and grab wet clothes,
tumble them out into arms that carry, that hang, that fold.
You already did the washing.
Tap, drip, water.
You're not thirsty. There's nothing to clean.
Cups and plates on the table, teaspoon, wrapper, keys, bottle top,
hints of breakfast earlier, of coming home later.
Vaguely messy, but no point in moving them.
Sideboard, papers that need sorting, but not now.
Fruit bowl, nearly empty. You should buy more. You're not hungry.
Laptop, emails. You've already checked.
Lips pressed together, dissatisfied, frustrated.
Thoughts unformed but cycling in a loop:
this time is not productive,
it needs a purpose,
something you should do,
something you're supposed to achieve,
something you're supposed to want.
You don't know what that is.
There's too much pressure.
This time is not productive,
it needs a purpose, etc.
Heavy silence.
Everywhere the suggestion of activity sits roughly
against the actual stillness,
an uncomfortable friction.
It crawls over your skin, a prickling sensation that notices everything around,
and tries to block it out at the same time.
Eyes checking, ears monitoring, skin crawling,
belly tense, concrete, pushing up into your throat,
no space inside, ready to move.
Quiet.
Unquiet.
