Deadline.
I have a pen in my hand and I'm clicking the clicker as fast as I can, then stopping to twirl the pen between my fingers, then clicking as fast as I can again and doing this more quickly as the time rolls by when I notice the man next to me is starring at me with a pissed-off look on his face, watching me click in annoyance, and I catch his drift so I stop and say "Sorry" and stare back at my computer screen.
Then I'm angry that I said "I'm sorry." He didn't deserve it.
I stare at the computer screen and can't figure out how to end the story I'm writing.
I click the pen top again, faster, and the man next to me looks at me again, more annoyed. He has an old face and deep, sunken black eyes and this ashen skin and white hair and he always looks like he's frowning at me - not ayone else, mind, just me - and as I stare at him I think that this is journlism and this is my profession and I'm suddenly sickened tremendously by my surroundings: the pale walls, the sharp lights, the cofee-stained carpet, the word cursor that keeps blinking, waiting for me to finish the last sentence of the last paragraph of the last story I need to work on for the night. Trying to make deadline is hardest without the music to beat to. My music is the pen clicks, a thousand a minute.
Ash Face has a dying look on his face, the look of journalism, and I wouldn't be surprised if he missed the next deadline, due to death.
And I'm more frustrated at my sense of frustration and this frustration is vented in me clicking my pen, which apparently annoyes Ash Face. I think to myself that if he keeps on looking at me with his coal-black eyes I'll stab the pen in his throat.
And as I think that thought I begin reconsidering my life.
Because this my life.
I think that that thought was too much and too unnecessary.
Still, around deadline I come to the surmising that my future is this dead lined. No silver about the lining.
Then I'm angry that I said "I'm sorry." He didn't deserve it.
I stare at the computer screen and can't figure out how to end the story I'm writing.
I click the pen top again, faster, and the man next to me looks at me again, more annoyed. He has an old face and deep, sunken black eyes and this ashen skin and white hair and he always looks like he's frowning at me - not ayone else, mind, just me - and as I stare at him I think that this is journlism and this is my profession and I'm suddenly sickened tremendously by my surroundings: the pale walls, the sharp lights, the cofee-stained carpet, the word cursor that keeps blinking, waiting for me to finish the last sentence of the last paragraph of the last story I need to work on for the night. Trying to make deadline is hardest without the music to beat to. My music is the pen clicks, a thousand a minute.
Ash Face has a dying look on his face, the look of journalism, and I wouldn't be surprised if he missed the next deadline, due to death.
And I'm more frustrated at my sense of frustration and this frustration is vented in me clicking my pen, which apparently annoyes Ash Face. I think to myself that if he keeps on looking at me with his coal-black eyes I'll stab the pen in his throat.
And as I think that thought I begin reconsidering my life.
Because this my life.
I think that that thought was too much and too unnecessary.
Still, around deadline I come to the surmising that my future is this dead lined. No silver about the lining.
posted by Chris Miles at 2:38 AM
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