The Quiet Hour

I command myself to write.  There is a story within the depths of my mind that will be written today.  Right now.  But the goings on of my apartment kitchen at the early hour of 7am does not seem like the work of classic storytellers.  It’s a slightly odd breakfast of milk and oatmeal cookies, because oatmeal is a good breakfast.  At least, it is when you write it down.

The clock chimes the hour.  I don’t have much time to finish.  Ten minutes, fifteen at most.

Still the command stands, still the challenge remains.  Stay in the present.  Stay with the moment.

Chimes fall silent.  The quiet hum of the refrigerator is my only companion as my family sleeps in the bedrooms five paces away.  Finished it’s cooling cycle, the fridge falls silent.  Now I find myself listening to the sound of my laptop’s fan, labouring away to keep the unit within operational temperatures.  It does not have to keep at a high speed, and has paused for a moment, much as I have paused to consider what I have written.

My eyes dart around the screen and I notice that I am in the wrong posting window.  Draft is saved and I search for a link on the page for the dashboard.  There is none.  None that I can see.

My frustration starts to rise, but cools as the cursor leaves the main browser area and clicks the dashboard bookmark.  Word count states 244.

The clock chimes fifteen past the hour.  Sounds like a good time to stop.


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