The small boy. The word toddler incarnate. He came out of the day care area ahead of his mother yesterday. Decided he didn’t want to leave the building. He didn’t throw a tantrum but chose to lie down in the reception area and take in all the wonders of the featureless ceiling. Outside, the rain pelted down. I looked at him and felt a strong pang of envy.
The envy hasn’t subsided. Next to my computer, the paper mountain grows. A paper mountain of lists detailing new requests for more paper, plus letters confirming the mailing of important papers, plus photocopies of yet other crucial, essential, vital papers. Outside, the rain. Anyone who still holds to the fantasy that the world was created for mankind’s pleasure and dominion need only look at overall rainfall levels across a world map to see the fallacy of that view. I prayed to a non-existent god last night that he/she might send the precious rainfalls to areas in dire need of same. The non-existent god was not moved to action.
Back to the small boy and those quiet eyes taking in the ceiling, the way a grownup would lie on a grassy knoll and watch the clouds move across the sky.
I sit here, lost in thought. Visualizing the rolling motion he made into the crawling posture and, from there – hands still on the ground – up to the standing one. Another pang of envy? Definitely.
A desk lamp. Two plants . A pile of personal papers awaiting further administrative processing. A pile of books, notes, assorted reading materials. A long sliding pile of documents pertaining to other people’s lives – this last, almost colliding into the camera, the phone, scribbled notes and a bowl with a few remaining dregs of café au lait.
If this is scene prep for the next trek out into the draft, one of the characters feels somewhat mired and weighed down by paperwork.