It’s Friday and I hate Friday’s. I have never really understood why I despise it so much. The very thought of the week ending, throws me into darkness and a grey cloud over my head, shadowing me through the day. On Friday’s I am grumpy, and I am easily annoyed. But all around me there is happiness, a joy found in the knowledge that the working week is ending. But, what good is this joy, when it lasts but two days? And all you ever do, through all the other days, is wish for Friday’s?
November, and it has been misty the last few days and today will not be an exception. I sit at my desk, in the office on the first floor. The building, named after a great ocean, has three stories and has always been home to offices. My view point, from my seat, lets me imagine, perched upon the main mast, as the lookout on our ship, as it ventures into the evening. I look upon the fading light, as dusk approaches, and into the old town, into the horizon. And as I sit here, this nights’ mist begins to descend, slowly, almost creeping towards the town below. On the rooftops it lands, and begins its wave, sideways along buildings, and it takes but minutes for it to engulf its first victim, the church roof. And soon, the church vanishes, into this white darkness.
The pub lies helplessly as the mist approaches. Outside are its merrymakers, waiting to dance the night way. The cold begins to tease them, and the dewy pellets within the mist begin an assault on their skin. Bearable I would think, but they seek shelter, and the mist conquers the pub, hiding it from my sight.
On my left, I can see a veil of white enclosing the apartment block, till I can no longer see the rest of the building. Light from the different apartments strives hard to make a path through the mist. Spots of light, like floating halos, present the background for this canvas. But what pray is it about to paint?
Below me, on the road, the silhouettes of the vehicles, as people drive home for their weekend. The mist has now settled lower, and the headlights of the cars now cut through it, whilst the refracted light makes a spectacle—a symphony of light that draws me closer– until I am now the only audience, separated by an orchestra pit, staring at the canvas before me.
I fear that tonight, the mist is going to be strong. It flows with a new found urgency, a longing and a desire that it needs to fulfill. I turn my head to look at the time and the clock reads 16:01. And I realize that I can no longer see anything out my window, just darkness and then white.