Awakedness

It was his thirst that first drew him upright in his bed, leading him to the kitchen. But once awake, his body no longer could accept the warm hug of slumber and instead lay motionless and alert above his blankets. He couldn't recall ever feeling this way before. He had only first gone to bed a few short hours ago, but here he was, in pitch dark, unable to return to that stress free land of fantasy that he could always count on before. He gazed about his obscured room, wishing he could at least admire the pictures on the wall, but it was in vain. He instead imagined them where they ought to be, since he had once stared at them for so many eternities as to memorize every detail they thought couldn't be seen.

His mind was like that, when alert. He had a heightened sense of the things around him, and he liked to think that it was a rare and important trait. Sometimes he memorized numbers for fun. Sometimes if he heard a phone number he would just store it away, even if he knew he would never use it. He could imagine that everything around him was not there, that it was all a number in his own mind, telling him what it should be, but what it really wasn't.

The pictures gradually came into view along his walls as the sun slowly kindled through his closed blinds. He imagined it like driving toward a castle; as you pass over one hill you can see the tallest tower, and then each hill you cross as you approach lets you see more and more of its walls, its buttresses, its gardens, its moat. Finally you reach the tourist parking lot and you are at the base of a castle, looking up, and are unable to see but what is directly in front of you.

This is how he looked at the pictures. Now that the sun was bright enough for him to confirm the details that he knew he remembered perfectly, he was reminded that he was awake. He once again rose from his bed into the lukewarm morning and set off for the water closet.

The mirror shocked him. His eye was much worse than he thought it would be. Eyelid, rather. Pink, swollen, inflamed, painful, ugly, dramatic, unexplainable, useless, watery, and somehow mongoloid. These are some of the more descriptive words that ran through his mind as he stared at it from every available angle. He never imagined it would get this bad. He would have to see a doctor. Maybe. First he would talk to his mother, because although she never had any medical training, she was more reliable than any doctor he had been to, especially since she knew when she was out of her league. She had seen it all in her many years as a socially participating human being, and had the experience to know what was an allergy and what was a spider bite.

But he could put that off until later. For now, there are papers to be written. He left the water closet and turned back into his room, illuminating it further with artificial light as he entered. He turned on his computer. It should have just been asleep, but apparently it had decided to take a different route in its path to unuse last night, and had shut itself down. He sat, silently cursing as it started from nothing. A thousand worlds could be created and blinked out of existence in the time it took for his machine to get from A to B.

He looked at his bulletin board and was reminded that his frozen yogurt coupon would soon expire. Why did he keep things like that? He would never use it, he knew. How embarrassing to go to a frozen yogurt shop alone and order two servings, just because the second one is free. Imagine the looks he would receive! He could already hear other customers whispering to each other as they sit with their dates, mutually enjoying their single serving fudge peanut butter swirl. He could feel his neck burn red as the man behind the counter overtly sneered. So vivid was the image in his mind that tears started to build in his left eye. He jerked his head away from the coupon, forcing himself to think about happier times.

The computer prompted for a password, but he knew he wasn't going to write now. How could he, with so much grief in the world? How could he complete another meaningless assignment put forth by the institute of higher learning, meant to form his mind in a way that they feel will benefit society? Who are they to know what is right for society, and more importantly, what is right for him? He wished his thoughts were revolutionary, but their haphazard argument is simply a patchwork of what other people have said and published. He is a collection of other minds. For all his effort in trying to be himself, he gains nothing. "Himself" changes with his proximity to different people. He wonders if it's the same for everyone.

Sitting in his chair in front of a blank screen six hours into the day is not how most of his mornings started. Today could be different; it could be the first day of the rest of his life. Or the differences could end when he gets in the shower. He looks down at his nearly nude body and wonders if he'll ever start the exercise plan he had laid out for himself. It was the beginning of summer, and he wanted to wake up every morning and ride his bicycle for at least an hour, burning away yesterday so he could start fresh every time the sun rose. Today wasn't the day, and after today was the weekend, so maybe he could get started next week. He knew he would never run out of excuses.

He spun his chair around. When did it lose the effect of making him the happiest child on earth? Maybe it was when people stopped spinning the chair for him. But maybe it was because this chair didn't have arms to hold on to. In any case, his dreary mood was not alleviated. He turned around, typed in his password, and began the rest of his day.

Three Flavors, Together but with Identity.

My roommate has soft serve hair. It comes in chocolate, vanilla, or swirl. Each flavor has its own curl from whence it pours, flowing like so much soft soft tasty treat of softy goodness and happy flavor, in its own type of beauty which is closer to standard than that of its frosty relative.

Ugh

The difficulties of this vida cannot cause me to succumb, for throughout, there will always be one light, and sometimes many, for my film is sensitive and detects the faintest happiness, the slimmest chance, the dying torch, causing me always to look forward instead of back, to know the future instead of remembering the past, and to feel the love instead of knowing the hate which has burned so deep, hidden so far down within that it cannot come up again without provocation; so far down that even my film cannot detect its light without being first admonished by the present.