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Category: Writing and Poetry


Discomfort follows me into my first conscious breath. The immediate sensation of damp sweat collecting underneath me is the sole motivator of my movements as I rouse my body to collect the heavenly cool air that pulses through my room. I slowly work the feeling through my body that I’m awake again, as if I’m some leaderless soldier trying to find out where the battle is, my body wakes in some strange, dull panic that hums throughout me until I ground myself again. My sinuses are always horrid in the morning, and it takes a few ragged inhales to get my nose used to the air again. My brain doesn’t like silence, so I blindly pat to my side to fetch my phone - almost dead, uneasily warm to the touch. It’s connected to an earbud I don’t remember putting in, and I don’t know where it went in the night. Lost in the sea of dark fabrics, socks, shirts that reside on my mattress, creatures that seem to appear amongst my sheets no matter how much I clean. I raise my phone over myself, out of some simple curiosity like an animal peering at itself. I look helpless. The confidence still clings onto my image because someone loves me again. Is this the universe? 

I know two times when I wake up: the current time, and the time I went to sleep. The current time leads to my acknowledgement of when I actually allowed myself to sleep, which was around 0330. I woke up at 0912, which is unusual for me unless I stay up very, very late. I’m naturally a morning person, it’s how I’ve been since I was little, I suppose my body gravitates towards the dawn like a calling. It used to be much worse, and occasionally now it still is. When I was younger, in my early teens I think, I would wake up at 3 in the morning each day without fail no matter how early or late I went to bed, and I could never fall back asleep. I still wish I could stay asleep longer. 

I scroll through my phone to prevent the inevitable start of my day, I’m not telling you what I look at in the morning, it’s all disgusting. Memories of last night, or early this morning, or whenever, time turns to a strange mixture the mind - urge me to get up and shower. A restless shower. Showers are supposed to calm the mind but my head is buzzing with thoughts and ideas and oddities under the scolding water. 

I come out with a choking feeling in my throat and blurry vision, the back of my eyes felt strained. I imagine a thousand different possibilities on how I could have been a better figure in the room. My heart feels heavier in my chest. 

One motivating part about the morning is my hunger. When I lose my hunger in the early hours, that will be the sign that I am ready to die. The kitchen counter looks disheveled with stacks of miscellaneous items and food stuffs scattered about, last night’s simple meal now fossilized onto the bowl. Dirty utensils looking more still in the grey light. Rotting bags of fruit, half-open sugary snacks, empty boxes of nothing. I ignore all of it because it feels like looking into a reflection and I already feel miserable enough. My family loves me too much to know I starve myself of good choices. 

The time spent making a small meal - taking note of my ever lowering rations and clenching my teeth at the punch my already drained wallet will take - is time spent solidifying that deep pit in my gut. I ignore the spoiling food in my fridge for the time being as I ignore my unhealthy diet choices day to day. I try to forget the internal misery I felt last night. Being with my good friends reminds me of who I’ve come to know and understand, and being with good friends further implants the question into my stream of thought; what am I good for? 

Everyone has their interests, their skills and their usefulness in a group, mingling and conversing and laughing and relating to one another. I can’t seem to find where I fit in - in fact, I can’t see myself useful at all. What do I bring to the group but a heavy body with too many emotions spilling out of the pores on my skin? I see myself a dead weight, a bag that people need to lug around just for the sake of pitying the bag, if they pity the object. Or an old toy that people bring just for sentimental reasons or something they can look at and laugh. I’m a bauble only carried along to be stared. I’m the pet you bring to watch when you’re bored of everything else. The thin comfort of my self-annihilation kindles a low fire in the base of my spine. I feel God-like for a moment. 

But Gods aren't so fragile, and the universe doesn't eat cereal. 

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