About a place

The concentration penetrating the four walls – two black, two white – seeps through the fingers of those attempting to create and discover a place they’d rather be. The thoughts tick over, one by one, and the process of evolution begins in its own finite sense.

As tapping of keys resounds from near and far, the lack of verbal interaction is somewhat startling given the demographic. Young women and men trying to ‘impress’ or at least satisfy their own sense of worth and place, physical and psychological, in the confinements of the polarised space.

Eyes scan screens and subsequently, the room, when thought flow weakens. The stagnancy of fingers is barley noted by neighbours, yet the individual feels the weight of their blood, nails, pulse and bones with such urgency. Of course, the pressure is but an internal build up of anxiety; a fear of failure, within the first stages of their ‘new life’. First impressions are hard to retract, even for the most well meaning.

Grimaced features, fractured jaws and tightly pursed lips are commonplace, as unified by a common passion, the people’s nerves and anxiety rise together, as if taking a leap so great, they fail to see the ledge on the other side. That ledge is a mere 45 minutes away, but time has never passed so slowly.

Nevertheless, the concentration is likely to draw positive results, whereby way and in the face of embarrassment, each feels as though they have achieved. For some, a sense of achievement may not have come for months, where spending, sleeping and late-night taxi rides overtook such an experience.

Middle fingers reaching out to the ‘delete’ key is notable, such force and desperation can be linked to no other.

Little glowing apples peer out from silver panels at all angels, an occasional distraction at most. Cables and connections snake across the flat surfaces of tables and screens on standby present black faces, signaling their passive state.

The distinct tapping of the long, central ‘bar’ signifies progress, and fluidity of thoughts, as words and sentences are strung out across the makeshift page.

Ironically, without being a physical spectator across one’s shoulder I am able to gage and acknowledge the flow of ideas in each, as they type at intervals; with continuity, or with great frustration, on that irreverent ‘delete’ key.

The keys with numbers seem irrelevant. If figures and equations were an integral part of such tasks, I suspect many of us would not have made the decision to be here.

I ponder over my (excessive?) use of the ‘comma’ key, as it mocks me from just right of the ‘m’ like a little brother who just can’t cut you enough slack for making him a peanut butter sandwich, instead of the one with strawberry jam he supposedly prefers. The strawberry jam is the ‘period’ key. You know it perceives greater certainty, clarity and properties of succinct prose, yet the schadenfreude embedded within that sense of narrative choice becomes too much to throw away – just like that peanut butter does when time (and relaxation) seem displaced from your side.

Gradually, fingers leave keys and turn to hair, to chins. Others come to a halt. A sense of completion reverberates across the tables as vision and attention is shifted to blank walls, wristwatches and mobile phones. Soon after follows the relief of a time limit, conclusively reaching its parameters. The room sighs in harmony and all keys are erect, stationary, still.

 

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