21/5/17

We’ve been running through life in circular narratives

Have we ever paused to notice the ridiculousness of it all?

I woke up today, half asleep with half my mind on the laundry list of things that I haven’t done. In the short term, at least for things that had to be done today, were my case assessments that were due 4 days ago. And to avoid looking like a washed-up doctor who couldn’t even get his life in order, I needed a haircut today as well (also due, probably a week ago).

I stumbled out of my bed only to collapse on the sofa; the aches from the week of night duty still gnawing away at my very existence. I twisted and arched my back in various contortions in an effort to provide a modicum of relief but alas, the pain was present, no more or no less. As I tried to find comfort in the fact that today was a day off, rooted in the back of my mind was a timer counting down the few precious hours I had before nightfall and the necessity of sleep; one last reprieve before the never-ending cycle of work-exhaustion-hunger-rest-work.  

12.35pm. Enough horsing around. I planted myself firmly in front of my desk and typed away furiously on topics that I vaguely remember. Why would a consultant be interested in reading this crap? Perhaps, as with all my motivations so far, she’s being paid to do it. Or maybe she’s just nice. Doubt it.

Smashed it. It seems kind of alright? Submit. Christine hasn’t said hi to me for the whole morning. Better text her.

Better meet the boys for dinner or I’ll be eating alone. Isn’t 10 o’ clock a little too late to be out? But it’s the last day of PL. Rushed out of the house. Promise I’ll be back by 12am to get enough rest.

Goodbye Mr. Sanders

Two days to the end. He stared at the blank piece of paper, unblemished, resting quietly on the large study, thinking of word plays and playing on words. These circular thoughts were largely his company when he realized the futility of it all. Time, purpose, life. Theories and extrapolations crafted by a man waiting on his execution; desperately trying to piece together the meaning of it all before he lets it go.
He made a peace sign with his right hand by extending his index and middle finger and placed it on his mouth. He took a big breath in and for a moment he could feel his soul being sucked away by an unseen force. That made him unsettled, albeit slightly, and he rose from his chair like an animal provoked, defiant till the end.
“Lucy! Get me Lucy!” he yelled. That double-crossin bitch. When I get my hands on her she’s done for. His breath heavy and laden with anger.  Slowly but surely, it gave way to cold, unadulterated fear.
“C’mon, don’t do this to me man. Please!” he began to choke.
Under the thin veil of moonlight a figure emerged from the shadows. His stood at about 6 feet tall, with broad shoulders and broad ape- like hands, which made the gun in his hands appear relatively tiny. His face was obscured by a shadow created by the large tipping hat that he was wearing.
“ I’m afraid that no one can save you now”, the deep demon-like voice croaked.

Two muted shots rang out and it was over as quickly as it began. Mr. Sanders’ blood soaked body laid sprawled on top of the crimson coloured Turkish carpet that he cherished so much, his voice frantically gurgling and gasping, before it could gurgle nor gasp anymore. His eyes wide open, gazing in awe of the white of the full moon against the backdrop of a clear night sky.