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Tuesday, 27 October 2009


There's a stillness in this room, not the sort of stillness that you'd want or enjoy - not peace. It's the stillness you'd find in an unlife, an existence with nothing but that mechanical movement which all are destined to perform. It is not life.

This stillness sits at the back, writhing and infecting all, even if they do not perceive it. In this room you wouldn't notice. Words are spoken, fade away and are never heard nor spoken of again. This room, it seems, is a stop in time, a place where moments move slower and you leave feeling like you've lost more than you've gained.

The stillness does its job and is smug in its victory, watching as you're being made its puppet for that slow hour-and-a-half drawl. With the lights low and no sound but the labourous scratiching of reluctant pens and the talking, which you don't really hear, that you begin to notice the stillness as it creeps around the room.

It would eye you, if it were a thing with eyes, wink and then move forward to spread the ailment and enforce it so that you couldn't slip out of it if you tried. Thinking becomes slow, dizzy, hazy and incoherent until you cannot think at all.

But if you could think you might find that you realise that it is not the stillness at all but the being at the front who paces back and forth and says words that no one remembers.

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