I'm fine, really
I had a couple papers to write tonight, and afterward I had that itch to keep writing...so I did what anyone would do and selfishly invested this in just a freewrite about random stuff. Enjoy my morning. ...
The alarm chimes as every morning and awareness spreads. It is morning, but not in the common sense. This morning comes before the dawn, before the slightest shuffle of a lowing horizon to tell of the approaching sun, before the birds stir and before the dew dries. This is my morning. This is my silent morning, where action and eyesight have yet to achieve syntropy and act independent of each other, shaking off the groggy haze of exhaustion. Days never begin with enthusiasm, but following a tidal change of attention, they're slow to begin, slow to terminate, but consistent in their approach. The house is still silent, the soft rustle of carpeting fraying under it's years of use beneath approaching feet, that subtle residual stick skin has to porcelain tile, the scampering sound of a brown and malnourished gecko running across the stained wallpaper. To turn on the sink is to invite a whole host of noise as first the valve groans to attention, vomiting forth with an inconsistent sputter of water, the metallic tones echoing throughout the room. This is the first 87 seconds of my morning.
A return to the recently departed room and assembled threads are acquired from the floor, only minimally soiled from use but making up for such in availability. Those cotton cargo pants, lose on one side with a slightly greater width to the pant leg, a tear just above the exterior-facing portion of the right ankle, frayed and exposed. There's no great story to the damage nor intent to repair the wound of fabric. A generic shirt displaying some sort of logo or statement is acquired and applied, similarly showing stains or damage of use. Hair is adjusted such that the poorly organized waves of brown, disrupted through a less-than-restful sleep hang disproportionately, and are held back with the metallic band of a pair of headphones. Music shall be the numbing step of cadence, the continual push forward through a day, a beacon to focus upon when all others are unseen and a companion to be less alone. Chords are packed, wrapped delicately with a quarter twisting motion to counter-clockwise... 27 wraps around the AC-to-DC power converter, 26 on the other side with no grounding plug. The laptop itself is placed inside an overstuffed and tearing backpack, held together at the seams with duct tape, fayed brown fabrics and strategically-placed items to evenly distribute the weight across the bottom.
Breakfast. There are no misconceptions of some fresh eggs flopping and sputtering in a well-greased pan, nor the welcoming allure of fresh citrus releasing an aerosol into the air from an abusive breaking of pulp. Breakfast is now a euphemism for a brown, artificially flavored and hydrophobic solution of protein derived from dairy products, cold water and seven different pills of debatable nutritional benefit. Preparation takes a variable amount of time depending upon how strong one's reflex to identify this spoiled-tasting, proteinous film as an item not to be confused with food is in this morning. It is my preference to spend at least 43 seconds in preparation, thoroughly suspending the powder well enough to at least pretend it's just contaminated water. This ritual is to be repeated three times daily, each time my throat tightens and stomach clenches in predicted disgust. It takes all of seven seconds to swallow the solution, and another seven to resolve any posthumous muscular twitches as every sense of disgust is told that it is wrong... disgust is never wrong.
This is not stagnation or regression, this is not quality of life nor desire of death, this is not anything. It's not insignificant, it's not a paradigm, confectionery or mattress. This is my morning, this is the start of my day and how I capture attention long enough to maintain the basic standards necessary to ensure the next breath is not the last. This is how I greet the day, beyond 832 milliliters of a hydrophobic solution in water, emulsified and beaten into submission long enough to be swallowed and utilized. It's a blend of 22 amino acids, cholesterol, fats and trace elements of mercury, to be used in health and in illness, to ensure both. This is loneliness in the most adolescent sense, direction is forged not found nor followed. To think, my day is only seven minutes over, seven minutes under and seven minutes less distant on this day that I have made.
Yeah...also listening to this:
The alarm chimes as every morning and awareness spreads. It is morning, but not in the common sense. This morning comes before the dawn, before the slightest shuffle of a lowing horizon to tell of the approaching sun, before the birds stir and before the dew dries. This is my morning. This is my silent morning, where action and eyesight have yet to achieve syntropy and act independent of each other, shaking off the groggy haze of exhaustion. Days never begin with enthusiasm, but following a tidal change of attention, they're slow to begin, slow to terminate, but consistent in their approach. The house is still silent, the soft rustle of carpeting fraying under it's years of use beneath approaching feet, that subtle residual stick skin has to porcelain tile, the scampering sound of a brown and malnourished gecko running across the stained wallpaper. To turn on the sink is to invite a whole host of noise as first the valve groans to attention, vomiting forth with an inconsistent sputter of water, the metallic tones echoing throughout the room. This is the first 87 seconds of my morning.
A return to the recently departed room and assembled threads are acquired from the floor, only minimally soiled from use but making up for such in availability. Those cotton cargo pants, lose on one side with a slightly greater width to the pant leg, a tear just above the exterior-facing portion of the right ankle, frayed and exposed. There's no great story to the damage nor intent to repair the wound of fabric. A generic shirt displaying some sort of logo or statement is acquired and applied, similarly showing stains or damage of use. Hair is adjusted such that the poorly organized waves of brown, disrupted through a less-than-restful sleep hang disproportionately, and are held back with the metallic band of a pair of headphones. Music shall be the numbing step of cadence, the continual push forward through a day, a beacon to focus upon when all others are unseen and a companion to be less alone. Chords are packed, wrapped delicately with a quarter twisting motion to counter-clockwise... 27 wraps around the AC-to-DC power converter, 26 on the other side with no grounding plug. The laptop itself is placed inside an overstuffed and tearing backpack, held together at the seams with duct tape, fayed brown fabrics and strategically-placed items to evenly distribute the weight across the bottom.
Breakfast. There are no misconceptions of some fresh eggs flopping and sputtering in a well-greased pan, nor the welcoming allure of fresh citrus releasing an aerosol into the air from an abusive breaking of pulp. Breakfast is now a euphemism for a brown, artificially flavored and hydrophobic solution of protein derived from dairy products, cold water and seven different pills of debatable nutritional benefit. Preparation takes a variable amount of time depending upon how strong one's reflex to identify this spoiled-tasting, proteinous film as an item not to be confused with food is in this morning. It is my preference to spend at least 43 seconds in preparation, thoroughly suspending the powder well enough to at least pretend it's just contaminated water. This ritual is to be repeated three times daily, each time my throat tightens and stomach clenches in predicted disgust. It takes all of seven seconds to swallow the solution, and another seven to resolve any posthumous muscular twitches as every sense of disgust is told that it is wrong... disgust is never wrong.
This is not stagnation or regression, this is not quality of life nor desire of death, this is not anything. It's not insignificant, it's not a paradigm, confectionery or mattress. This is my morning, this is the start of my day and how I capture attention long enough to maintain the basic standards necessary to ensure the next breath is not the last. This is how I greet the day, beyond 832 milliliters of a hydrophobic solution in water, emulsified and beaten into submission long enough to be swallowed and utilized. It's a blend of 22 amino acids, cholesterol, fats and trace elements of mercury, to be used in health and in illness, to ensure both. This is loneliness in the most adolescent sense, direction is forged not found nor followed. To think, my day is only seven minutes over, seven minutes under and seven minutes less distant on this day that I have made.
Yeah...also listening to this: