"five minutes left for any orders that don't include alcohol!"

unexpectedly devoid of the ordinary last-minute bustle and rustle, late afternoon atmosphere clearly lacked the qualities that would otherwise breathe life into the open, empty space. dust left unstirred by absent footsteps found solidarity in quiet corners. early summer sun's heat reflected and filtered through amber-tinted, politely bullet-resistant windows.

a strong push turns the tall, narrow doors, hinges creaking announcement of the visitor's arrival, multiple latches clicking their disapproval in stainless steel reinforced locks. the door reluctantly churns open.

pausing at a waist-height counter cluttered with scraped-away remnants of various posted notices and other adhesive debris, overused pens stand at an angle, leaning out to invite the writer to mistake their form for function while hiding their long dried-out tips in shallow holders. forethought rewarded, momentary scribbling using a pen retrieved from a deep hip pocket is briefly interrupted by the rasping last call for service.

the sarcastic tone of a voice entering middle-age after a youth spent in loud pubs and clubs communicates a direct opposition to the presentation afforded by the once-crisply starched uniform. beckoning to the flat electronic measuring scale, parcels are weighed and amounts entered. "yes please". "no, thank you".

the intentionally excessive politeness becomes the slightest kind of game, soon replaced by the offer of a faux-haughty gesture. extra options? gosh no, darling, no need to ask. our time is running out here. almost time for drinks... no more taking orders, time to start giving them, to start the evening off right, you see...

she arches an eyebrow and cracks a smile, interpreting the impromptu sign language and offering her own verbalized substitute. from strangers to co-conspirators in less than three minutes.

as the transaction draws to a close, more excessive "thank-you"'s and "enjoy your holiday"'s has her smiling covertly; a look of recognition and perhaps hidden gratitude. the tall narrow doors creak on their hinges, allowing early summer sun to momentarily stream in, along with a fresh breeze to stir a moment of animation into the otherwise still, slightly musty arena.

---

so many people seem trapped in their roles. and yet, we all seem to understand how to break them, if only we can be led to the right moment. it doesn't happen consciously; the smile creeps up on it's own. reality becomes ours when the decision is made to see it as the consensual illusion that can enable play rather than seriousness. of course, that is the danger of realizing that we are all actors. the power of illusion often is the same impetus that drives the creation of social control. what happens, then, if the impetus toward action is placed within the character, rather than driven by the given circumstances?

Achievement.

Not a single event. Actually, a cycle.

To have a goal is the first step. Next, reach it by taking smaller steps along the way, working backwards from the ultimate moment of success, reaching back in time to the present. The bold entrance to a process comprised of simple actions... planned all the way to the end.

The strange part about achievement, though, is that it rarely actually is the end. Most of the time, it's only a stepping-stone to something else.

Which begs the question: is there such a thing as achievement, really? Or only, escalation of complexity?

And of course, the subtext of the question is another question: what's the point?

The movement of the sun defines the days, and yet, the day is only one... if humans perceived time as an unbroken series of moments, I wonder what impact that realization would have on the living of life itself. A nagging thought, recently.