It’s not every day that you wake up 30 minutes before noon and jump out of bed because of a phone call. You know that it’s from a parent – yours – who’s going to be extremely irritated to find out that you’ve just got out of bed. Everyone else has been up hours ago, and you’re still sleeping like a log. A lazy log. You know that’s exactly what they’re thinking. There goes your reputation. Not that you had any to begin with.
It’s not every day that you remember to catch a television programme. You either oversleep or forget about it entirely. Well, it seems that you must be lucky today, for you’ve remembered about it just 20 minutes before it begins.
It’s not every day that you fall out with your parents and aren’t really on speaking terms anymore. (Just for today, that is. You can never harbour hatred or irritation for long.) You turn off the television and move your things into your room – your hideout. You close the door. There is little need to actually lock it because hardly anyone enters even when it is wide open, much less when it is closed. You brood for a while and do you own things.
It’s not every day that you decide to haul your lazy ass into gear and spend two hours cleaning up your room. Your parents have never wasted an opportunity to remind you how lazy you are; it’s like a mantra now. But today you decide to change for a bit and give your room a once-over. It’s now a hundred and fifty percent neater and cleaner than before, you conclude. Content, you settle back and let the rags dry.
It’s not every day that you’re told to cook your own meals. Your cooking experience is close to being non-existent, yet that doesn’t mean you don’t know how. You’ve just never tried. When yet more irritation overcomes you, you retreat back to your hideout. Safe. For now.
While sitting at your desk, you suddenly hear a sound from right behind you. It’s loud, when compared to the near silence of the house.
A sound of something hitting the floor. Crisp. Like paper.
Curiosity piqued, you turn around (on your swivel chair).
You pick up the object and place it on your desk right beside you. And you continue writing.
It’s not every day that you find a fallen leaf in your room. You’re on the 11th storey; there’re certainly no trees residing outside your window. Also, there’s no gale. Just a slight breeze. This abandoned leaf drifting upwards, past so many stories all the way up here, and by some chance landing in your room, right behind you… this isn’t your everyday thing.
After giving it some more thought, you add:
It’s not every day that you find so many un-everyday things to write about. But you know, somewhere in your heart, that every day can become an un-everyday day.
You just have to look.
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