escapology.

She doesn’t see people, so much as observe them.
Watching with an expression of curious amusement,
         a child watching an ant.
She seems to find charm in places others wouldn’t even think to look,
As if to her, existence alone is a thing of beauty.

It’s rather appropriate, I suppose,
         that this makes her all the more beautiful to me.

The clocks march on, unfalteringly marking out the seconds before our eventual, inevitable demise. And yet, their purpose is beaten into brutal, hopeless futility by the fact that we can never truly know when exactly it will take place.

It will happen. That much is certain; one of the few unerring truths we have left. But how many times the pendulum will swing between the beginning and the end of our all-too-brief storyline will remain a mystery until it is far too late for the knowledge to be of any use to us.

So we’re left with no choice, nothing to do but count the seconds, the hours and the years, and wonder when, at last, it will happen.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Contains violence, and mild swearing.

Monday morning. Ten to eight.

The dawn’s early rays penetrate softly through the half-curtained window, as if awakening blearily, grudgingly, for another day. The sunlight glances softly off the light terracotta tiles, scattering widely across the smooth granite worktops.

The kitchen takes a deep breath, enjoying the calm before the inevitable, Monday-morning-school-rush storm. A single crystal drop lingers at the mouth of the tap, before dropping, almost lazily, into the bowl below.

In the distance, a rumble of quiet thunder: someone makes their way clumsily down the stairs, flowed by the slower, lighter footsteps of another. The blissful silence of morning is gone, destroyed by the invasion of the day’s preparations.

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