In the half light, as the day retreats and the lamps come on. We throw off the starched and stiffened expectations, and pull on ourselves. Objectives of the nine to five are kicked under the bed and heaped upon the floor. Pockets of busyness poured onto every surface, the keys to action dumped in readiness for the mornings panicked search.
But now, we breath, exhaling the pressure of today’s endeavours, inhaling the time we have before the hangers drop and the shoes are retrieved from their place of rest.
The urge to share our stories dissolves in the second glass as the evening grasps and grips. The struggles and stresses get pushed to the side of the plate and are left piled up by the sink to glare back at us in tomorrow’s breakfast rush.
The aspirations of achievement make way for the tales of the hardship of others, their lives and deaths. We watch people doing what we always dreamed of and dismiss them for it. We listen to the tragedies and comedies and are grateful for the sofa and the satellite.
We watch in the comfort of lounge minds and of bucks that have passed. Tut and moan at the state of it all, then sneer at the helpless, whilst we pour another glass of safety.
Relax, tomorrow never comes.