Two Minutes Past Midnight
By Isaiah
Cabañero
TWO MINUTES past midnight:
My eyes opened up in the cold dark room of my
apartment. The air-conditioning has just dozed off on timer.
I got up; my head up off my pillow. I was
double-wrapped by my blanket and my bed’s sheets. What to do? I thought.
I thought of sitting up by my writing desk. Perhaps I could write some stories. No, just
some notes. Stories would be too ambitious at the moment.
The exposed red brick wall behind my desk appears
weirdly illuminated by the moonlight in my room. Or was it the light from the
outside of my room that is still on?
I sat up on my chair. It creaked a bit as it
swiveled upon my weight. What to do? I thought. What to write then? I thought.
A few pages of blank paper lie on top of my desk.
Plus some smaller pieces of ones that I use as papers for reminders to pin on
my corkboard that rested at an angle between the desk and the window pane. It
fell off the wall a few days ago and I had not had time to mount it back again.
I had to buy yet another roll of mounting tape from the bookstore.
What to write? I thought.
To change the world, what do I do? I started to
think.
I shall build a new civilization. Rebuild, or
build a new one. ...
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