Two steps from my bed to my desk. Three steps from my bed to my TV. Two steps from my bed to the balcony door. One step from my bed to my wardrobe. I can reach everything in my one-room apartment with no more than five steps. It´s five steps to reach my book shelf. Everything is within reach.
Two steps from the bathroom door to the apartment´s door. Twenty two steps down the staircase. Three staircases. Outside. I inhale twice. It´s a ritual. Then I start counting again. It´s seventy two steps till the end of the road. Twelve to cross the street. Five thousand two hundred and fifty steps from my front door to the front door of my work place. A total of twenty-seven steps to reach the changing rooms. Thirty one steps to get to my machine.
I have to work three hundred minutes before I can go to lunch. That´s eighteen thousand seconds. I don´t like my work, so these eighteen thousand seconds feel like a million seconds, even though that would be sixteen thousand six hundred sixty-seven (rounded up) minutes. That would be two hundred seventy-eight (rounded up) hours and you can´t fit two hundred seventy-eight hours into one work day. Two hundred seventy eight hours would be thirty-five (again, rounded up) work days.
It´s Monday. I wish it was weekend already. Two days, forty-eight hours, two thousand eight hundred eighty minutes, one hundred seventy-two and eight hundred seconds of bliss. But it´s Monday. Monday seems like the longest day of the week. It´s the Monday phenomenon. Every day has only twenty-four hours, but Monday´s twenty four hours are pertinacious and viscous. Unlike Sunday´s twenty four hours that seems to last only as long as it takes for a hummingbird to flap his wings.
The same hand movement for three hundred minutes. Lunch break. The same hand movement for another two hundred and forty minutes before I can call it a day. Another phenomenon, the way back home. Five thousand three hundred and seven steps from the front door of my work place to my home. It´s the same way in the morning and in the evening, but after work, it takes me longer to get back home.
One step. I´m in my apartment, hang the coat on the coat rack. I take off my boots. Another step and I´m in the bathroom. I wash my hands. Thrice. In my room, I walk over to the desk. Seven steps. I hate watching the inside of my apartment from this perspective. I can´t see everything, so I walk over to the bed and sit down on it. Only two steps, but now the world seems fine again. I can see my three hundred seventy-two DVDs, my four chairs, the three tropical plants that need watering, one lamp on each side of the TV, the fifty-nine colored stripes on the carpet, the fourteen shirts, neatly piled up, all eleven pants, the seven tulips in the vase on my bedstand, everything else, counted, registered, and my nine hundred thirty-three books. I need another book shelf, but that would screw up my numeral perspective, so I pile the books up in front of the book shelf and on any other free surface, furniture or wherever else I can find space.
Thanks to Cheri Lucas, I´m now featured on Freshly Pressed!