Wake. Blink crusty eyelids. Take stock (where am I? Who am I? What's that terrible beeping?)
What were you doing last night? There were drunks. You were drunk. Something like that. Why? Were you celebrating? You think so, but what? There's been so little to celebrate recently, with all the work on the big project.
The project! Neurons fire at last; synapses shaking free of alcohol-induced fuzziness. Memories flicker before your eyes, dim recollections illuminating the past. There had been a party; a good one, too. Everyone chattering, smiling, and drinking. A lot.
The drinks weren't very good, but it hadn't really seemed to matter at the time. All that had mattered was that you had finished the thing; and better than anyone expected. Even though it was only one in a set of nine and a half (my word, hadn't there been arguments about that in the office...) it was rumoured that management had high hopes for this one. You might even collar a promotion this time.
What's the time? Look blearily at the alarm clock (oh, that's the beeping...). Panic, then relax. It's done. No need to be into work early today, no-one has to be. Except the poor sod who had to present it to management.
At this point, a doubt begins to bother you, but you ignore it, too busy basking in the glorious warmth known only to the until-recently overworked. You did lovely work on the landscaping, but the plumbing's unpredictable and the air-con's delicate, likely to fail if it's messed with. It's not your department, but you feel a little sorry for whoever has to explain it to the boss.
The doubt has grown to a worry. Who is explaining it? A horrible certainty is sliding into your mind with the inevitability of a glacier (you did a great job on those, didn't you?). Of course it's you. It always is. Stop relaxing.
Panic now. Roll out of bed, trying to get the alarm off via your route to the floor. Stare wildly into the mirror. Your clothes are rumpled, but you don't have time to do anything about that now. At least you're still in them, and they look vaguely presentable. Just wash your face and grab your coat from where you left it on the harp (isn't it time you got rid of the old thing? You never could play it anyway...) and stagger out the door.
Your thoughts turn to retirement as your haphazard steps take you to the construction site. You could, you realise, retire after this job. You'd done good work, and deserve a rest longer than a day off a week. Maybe set up somewhere and finally learn to play that harp.
But then you turn the corner and know that you could never give this up, ever; because there it is, jewel-bright, glittering, as beautiful as it was when you put the finishing touches to it yesterday.
Perfect.
Shining.
Earth.
- By Allyn Robins age 16, Logan Park High School.
