Morning Glory

A short story of the dread that follows waking up.

When I woke up it was raining. With a bitter taste in my mouth and dreams of yesterday hope I twist myself deeper into my sheets. I could hear my neighbors speak about flower arrangement and trashcans. I lowered the sheets and saw their feet outside of my basement window, making me aware of my own nakedness and the constant circular flow of trash inside of my room. In the living room my friends, my roommates spoke in soft words of the day to come. Whispered promises of coffee and surviving trough the overcoming days. Small words powdered with sleep and taste of vegetarian breakfast. Questioning if I was awake or not. 
I bury myself deeper and try to catch the dreams again. Push my eyelids together in hope for a glimpse of this nights adventure. Hoping for the moment of believing that they might be true again. Like a newborn opening their eyes for the first time I blinked mine,  puzzled by being dragged into existence in such a swift motion. Hoping for moment longer of rest, moment longer of oblivion. 
I push down my senses of being. Tell myself I don’t really need to pee and that I’m really not that thirsty. Remind myself that If I would be asleep those small reminders of being would not bother me. I carefully drag the pillow to cover my eyes. Slowly not to wake up more of my senses. Tell my mind “this is not the morning sun, no its the midnight sun of our childhood” I suss myself and whisper “trust me go to sleep again”. 
The more I try to rationalize my lust for dreams the more distant they become. In dread I’m waking up. Every minute fires up the same debate I have every morning or afternoon. You need to wake up versus but I really don’t want to. Every minute of thoughtfully trying not to think becomes infuse with the stress of what needs to be tough about. 
My mind and body seems to split in two. They start their emerging war of waking up and trying to sleep. I just try to be the indifferent middle and let my hand drag myself out while my foot buries itself into the mattress. I know how the war will end but I let myself swing between the two sides. At last the always winning side uses their best hand. Hunger mixed with stress. Hunger that will grow unless I nibble on my roommates, my sisters stale crackers and the stress that won’t be soothed until I f*****g do something. 
When my toes finally touch the constantly cold wooden floor my dreams seem to fade. Outside my neighbors have left and the living room is quiet. The rain has transformed into drips and puddles and I drag myself to the bathroom. Every moment of eating, peeing and waking up cleanses away more of my dreams of wonder. With every piece of clothing and every action of making myself look like a living being makes the stress become more bearable. I can handle this. 
I pop my pills and chug my bleached water. In the moment of truly waking up I let go of my wish for ever going dreams. While putting on my shoes I create new hopes of concert cleaned and grass made fresher by rain. I walk outside into the ever shortening day and let the fresh autumn breeze bring me to life. Let the sun paint my outlines and rain help me grow. I let myself be crystallized by the theory of what makes us be mixed with the smell of rotting recycling. While filling my lungs with the proof of being alive and the sounds of the city I wonder If I’ll be able to sleep tonight. 

Author's Note

This is about my everyday fight about getting out of bed. Every critique is welcome and I apologize for grammar mistakes.

Reviews

[alifeacoustic]

I honestly had to read this twice just to make sure it wasn't something I wrote. I completely detest being awake and would gladly sleep my life away if it were possible. The groaning realisation that consciousness has returned is displayed here perfectly in all its detestable glory and the weighted angst of wakefulness is portrayed perfectly in your words.
Superb write. Thank you for sharing.