Goodmorning

I’ve woken into silence.

The mood is gloomy today. A gloom full of inexplicable lively exhaustion and oh, how my body begs for sleep. My eyes, my mind, every inch of me, wishes to lay down again and rest.

So rest they tell me – the others, that is.

Eat. Rest. You’ll be better for it.

But will I?

The sun is yet to rise and already these hours come down on me in such a way that a thousand years could only ever touch. I don’t wish to rest. Not yet. Not today. There are things that I must do, in an order that they must be done so that by the end of it, everything is as it should be, and I will not be deemed inept by my own condemning mind. I need this. Sleep can wait. I don’t think that they could understand.

Well, to be fair (we must always be fair), perhaps one could – for there is possibility in anything (or so my psyche has decided for the moment) – and yet, their questions to me indicate that they have no clue, that they do not understand; this is reasoning; my morning ritual.

It is reason for tomorrow. If this can be done now, it can be done again tomorrow. Perhaps there is purpose, perhaps there is hope. Days like these crawl, they drag and pull me back. It is as though there are a hundred invisible hands grabbing at my flesh demanding that I move in reverse. With each minute that passes, weighing me down and ridiculing me. Watching and laughing as these hands pull me back.

Sickly hands; withering yet strong, dark as night yet pale like a dead man, I hate them.

I hate these days.

From time to time it begins to show; the darkness under my eyes, my body limp and weighted, and so, they tell me to be strong, but they don’t understand; I already am.

So sometimes I hate people. I know, that these measures are not justified, but in times like those – I have not the heart to care. I reason with myself then – just as I always seem to do – until I find logic in my resent for the entire race, until even anyone who ever has smiled or cried or raged is guilty of lies.

What of us all then –? No one is real. Not I, nor him or her nor any of those faces we so surely believed. Yet still, I am but a child; naïve and weak and mostly I think it is merely a passing fancy I have (to believe in no one) and as gradually yet surely as the tides, I too, return back to my primary phase where people in essence can be excused.

But I cannot.

They will not (reason, overlook, forgive), excuse?

Excuse me never, never overlook for these words – they ’re fabrications – you were too perpetual in your trust for me. So you see, I may never be excused nor may I blame. Not even her or even these days, when I wake into a world in which I am alone but for the hands, the voices and her thoughts.