A productive evening
All the tools are laid out in front of me. The keyboard’s backlight shining in a dim white, inviting to type on it. The screen, just a blank canvass, white, staring at me the same way I am staring at it. The smooth tunes of Spotify’s Jazz Study playlist seemingly igniting my creativity.
But
I forgot something, the water bottle on my desk, empty, like the blank page before me. I can’t start like this. I get up, fill it. The steady stream of water coming out of the tab should be the words filling this page.I sit down again, the page still blank. However, the backlight less bright this time. My fingers hover over the keys, anxious to get started.
But
The music is too loud — too much saxophone, not enough space for my thoughts. My hand moves, lands on the mouse. The page disappears, Spotify page pops up. The music pauses.
Silence.
Only the blank page, me, and the dim light coming from the keyboard under my fingertips.
But
There is another light. And another noise. An almost silent rumbling. From the edge of the table, the phone. I should’ve activated do not disturb. Anyways no use to cry over spilled milk, what’s going on? Twenty seconds later, Instagram.
Now
Pictures fly by, colorful, bright, exciting. Unlike the blank page still staring at me from the screen. More scrolling, more colors. The dim backlight of the keyboard, gone. The bright white page disturbs. Too bright, too demanding. Unlike the bright pictures, they allow me to consume, no need to create. My hand moves, the lid closes. No more bright white page. Just colorful pictures.
But
Sitting in the chair is not so comfortable anymore. The bed, soft and warm, is calling. Soon the fresh sheets, navy blue, cover me. Far better than the office chair. Far more comfortable. Silence, it is still there, no clicking of a keyboard, no sighs of relief, just the dull noise of my finger hitting the touch screen. Another bright picture, colorful, exciting, consuming.
But
Soon the screen is too bright. Too many colors, too many pictures.The screen turns black. As black as the room. No more sounds, no more dull typing, just the occasional creeks of the bed frame. One last stand, thoughts about what I wanted to do pop up.
But
It is of no use. The gravitational pull of the warm bed is too strong. To weak my will to not be consumed by it. Too strong my need for sleep. Tomorrow will be another day — a productive one, of course.
