A minute before 4AM, her laptop clatters to the tune of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Her eyes remain closed. Her mattress moans underneath the weight of a broken sleep, nonetheless she gets up and drags her footsteps towards the kitchen like long dashes of a pen on paper, connecting the opposite sides of a page.
In the middle of the symphony of silver and a praise chorus of plates, she picks up a sachet of Kopiko Brown, pours it on her Toy Story coffee cup filled with water, 2 degrees hotter than just right. She loves the sound the teaspoon makes against the porcelain cup.
She looks out the window and the wind renders a guitar solo with the clotheslines. The wee hours of thursday mornings have made her thankful for these small sounds.
The slow days are gone. In the usual mornings or late noons that she wakes, she takes one look at time and loses it. Before her feet could touch the floor, she turns into a bird, and throughout the day there are no branches. How cruel is it that she has lost almost all of her mornings. She would plead with her eyes, but her unfinished thesis is alive and uptight before her, whispering of the trudging deadline ahead.
It is only thursday mornings that she owns time again, but not really. As she perched on the dining table, she catches herself in pensieve moments. The clockwork continues and her thoughts pause between the slow swinging of hands dictating the tempo of time. Thoughts, she still has these — although they never seem to catch up to words, and is late for paper, and always, regrettable always, is too listless or list-full for a patient space in her blog.