Picture that scene from movies based in an era when telephones weren't ubiquitous: you are awaiting some communication, and anxiously pace the few yards between the front door and the gate, peeking into the watch every now and then wondering why the postman hasn't cycled into your view yet. Then, you hear that characteristic ringing of the bell announcing the arrival of the messenger. You dash to the gate, hold it firmly so as to not swoon as you stand there expectantly. He drops off mail intended for your neighbours up the street and inches towards you, pedaling seldom to your irritation. When he is finally right outside your gate, time seems to slow and he, to stop. A smile begins to sprout from your face, furrowed by worry, irrigated by sweat beads.
But, he doesn't pause. You wonder if he has missed delivering that letter meant for you, and want to call out, but your voice is choked by the deluge of despair unleashed by your unconscious understanding of the fact that he had nothing addressed to you.
You sulk and retreat into the confines of your home. All you can do now is pray and hope that he will bring in the good tidings the next day. It is, after all, possible that the intimation intended for you has had to endure a tardy transit. Your mind, though, is in its own inertia - one of rapidly racing thoughts about the contents of that correspondence. Yet, a day sees both the Sun and the Moon at the helm of the horizon, holding out hope, if only on occasion. You finally concede that you have to put up with one more day of postal procrastination, cheered only by the thought the good is perhaps in the last day of gestation.
It's the night. You shut your eyes, not hoping to sleep, but to cut down the disappointment of looking out the window and finding it isn't dawn yet.
It's a new day, and the Sun coaxes you to wake up, and unsuccessfully at that, till you can faintly discern the chime of that clock in the hall: it's 7 AM already. You shake off the sleep, spruce yourself up and sing the hymns in praise of the Lord, entreating Him to ensure your envelope's entry sans further delay.
Time ticks, and you pace the few yards between the front door and the gate...
Sounds rather cruel in how the desperation is deposited layer upon layer, day after day, doesn't it? Yet, the turmoil is broken by moments of transitory trance, as you hope for deliverance the day after. And once the postman has cycled away, leaving you alone to cycle through the travail of frustration, at least, he takes away the anticipation for the next few hours in the certainty that he won't be back till the next day.
Imagine, no, recall itching for that response via an Instant Messaging (IM) medium, be it a phone call, an SMS, email or a ping. You keep staring at your mobile phone, an activity as endless as the path you pace the whole while. You fiddle with the volume of your phone's speakers, wanting not to be stumped by an unintended silent spell. You hear your ringtone or message alert, too, at times, only minus the on-screen display of caller/sender details, for a dousing of your developing delight. You keep refreshing your browser and eagerly listen to the silence, one you wish will be shattered by that audio notification of a new mail or ping. The anticipation feeds frustration, which fermented by a trace of hope, augments the anticipation, and so on. The stable inertia of longing for that letter is replaced by an ever-spiraling surge of stress, the storm swirling in larger sweeps with each passing second...
Imagine, no, recall itching for that response via an Instant Messaging (IM) medium, be it a phone call, an SMS, email or a ping. You keep staring at your mobile phone, an activity as endless as the path you pace the whole while. You fiddle with the volume of your phone's speakers, wanting not to be stumped by an unintended silent spell. You hear your ringtone or message alert, too, at times, only minus the on-screen display of caller/sender details, for a dousing of your developing delight. You keep refreshing your browser and eagerly listen to the silence, one you wish will be shattered by that audio notification of a new mail or ping. The anticipation feeds frustration, which fermented by a trace of hope, augments the anticipation, and so on. The stable inertia of longing for that letter is replaced by an ever-spiraling surge of stress, the storm swirling in larger sweeps with each passing second...
Perhaps, I should put that Parker to use. The time consumed in writing legibly might keep me from maundering, while the ink spent should give me an inkling of the information that has flown out, thereby lessening the chances of my inundating my reader. Most importantly, if it is found to be laborious, I may, given my laziness, refrain from gratuitously greeting people in the hope of a conversation, a hope that then leaves me hanging by an incomplete thread - an insufferable malaise.
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