Cubicle Zen

That time of summer where winter has not yet faded but remains no more. When, by not being, it's around. Like the scent of a stalker you sniff out in the empty playground. And then, don't look back.

Twists of orange and yellow plastic wrappers in a plastic bowl. Near it, a plastic cup with synthetic-tasting coffee. Inferior notepaper and thick, ball-point pen. And in all that, an idea that still-born until now, trembles awake.

Cookies wilting away in the humid coastal summer. Rounds of sugared dough and butter. The napkin lies underneath – tempted, grateful, listless.

Hot, steaming coffee. Cool, creamy coffee. The chip of the ice cube fogged with milky sweetness. Curls of steam getting milder by the second. Four other cups line up the table with dregs of bitter coffee that was left unconsumed. Brown, tepid consequences of distraction.

There's the 'To-Do' list – plumped with importance, dusted with urgency, and spiced with garlicky chips of slippery time management. Things happen around it but the undone tasks lie – soothed tender of uncooked duck of unresolved time.

Time sneaked through the hours today – a river through a forge. Carrying the light of the day, the scent of the moon, and the rousing joy of early evening. And all those tasks it touched, it got done. Ticking off items one by one. Prettiness, loveliness, ease. It goes away somedays. The anxiety, the fears of having missed out on smelling all those beautiful-flowers – and you wait out endless summers for the backyard to be less barren.