, , , , ,

Sarah Kearns

For Jaclyn’s class, but she ended up writing something on her own.

Topic: A narrative about an event in your life that happened in about five minutes.

               Quite Possibly The Most Meaningful Five Minutes Of My Life.

12:49. My palms are sweaty and my fingers tremble as I put them to the keyboard and begin to type. My mind is anywhere but here as my fingers glide across the keys spelling out as many words as I can come up with. No aim. No focus. Just words. It’s like in movies, when they show you a lot of things happening over a long period of time, you know that perfectly edited, fuzzy looking fast-forward encompassing anywhere from a month to a year in just thirty seconds. But have I really been sitting here for that long? I can’t stop my fingers from scrambling, vigorously, tapping at the keys, and can’t tear my eyes away from marveling at their actions long enough to check the time or my place. All I can thing about is how badly I needed to finish. How I need to write. How I have no time to write. And I wonder why it matters…what really would happen if I don’t finish? Would anyone really care? Like, really care? It is not like this story is going to shatter the earth with brilliance… far from it. It isn’t even a story! Why am I going to subject you to such meaninglessness? Is that even a word? I never know. But I said it, so it is now. For a brief moment of reality, I look at the time. The flashing colon breaks up the last pair of numbers I expect to see. 12:52. Twelve fifty-two is impossible. Where is the time going, and what am I doing with it?! And I am still typing… more impossible yet. But I don’t want to stop. I don’t think. With an unimaginable sense of confusion at my current state of being, my fingers continue tirelessly spelling out one word after another after another, and I still wonder if I have said anything yet. But I have another two minutes. And I guess my fingers are going to attempt to make those two minutes count. Because a lot can happen in two minutes, right? Maybe something will happen in these next two minutes that will be worth telling and I won’t have to hand in whatever piece of crap precedes this sentence. My mind waits while it wanders, still not in control of my fingers. It’s an odd sensation, I might add, if you have never experienced it. I almost feel like I haven’t quite experienced it either…but I guess I am because it’s happening, I just don’t have the time to figure it out. No time. My eyes methodically flit to the tiny clock in the upper right corner of my screen, and I thank whichever technological genius came up with the digital clock. Jealous of him for his obvious creativity, the thing I want most right now. But thankful for his contribution to this small but awful fraction of my life. 12:53. Wait, 12:54. It’s nearly over now, and I have to be ready for it. I can’t get these five minutes back and I won’t regret what has happened, or lack thereof. Probably about fifty seconds remain and I am pondering the oxy-moronic fragility of time. Time is one of the few sure things in this life, but is still so fragile in it’s ability to be wasted. But I’m thinking too much now, and so my fingers are moving much slower than they did a minute ago. It’s inevitable. I am sorry for what you have to read. I am sorry that it means so little. But it was five minutes, and it is what you asked for…12:55. The end.

* * * * *

It was twelve forty-nine in the morning and I was starring at a nearly blank page. My name and the date were all this white useless document held, all they had held for the last week. And all, it seemed, they would hold. See, for me, writing is part of life. I write fictional books, and short stories as a well enjoyed hobby. But that is fiction. I have always had trouble writing about myself. I lead a pretty sheltered life so, to begin with, I haven’t got much to tell. But I am also admittedly awful at sharing things about myself. I put a lot of pressure on my life in general. Among many things, I put pressure to make it mean something, and pressure to make it impressive. And, therefore, I find it most difficult to tell my stories. I worry that the tale of my first meeting with a college official is not interesting enough to share, or that it wasn’t that exciting on the day I got my ear pierced. So after sitting for a week trying to think of five minutes of my life that were worth sharing to no avail, I decided to write about the only five minutes I absolutely couldn’t judge. The ones that hadn’t happened yet. So, I hope you understand. My palms are still sweaty and my fingers still tremble, but I am going to remove them from the keyboard and click ‘print.’