The Wake

I’m restless again. I’m folded into the curves of the blankets, melted into the pillows. I feel hot and sticky and shed the fleece and cotton skins that envelope me. Almost immediately, a chill runs through me, and I pull them back on. I gaze into the blankness of the wall, then flip back to stare at the dull orange glow of the alarm clock. I roll flat on my back and trace the textures of the ceiling with my eyes.

I close my eyes, desperately squeezing until the muscles ache. In my head, I constantly berate myself. Stop doing this. Get some sleep. RELAX.

I try to pinpoint what it is that keeps me awake. I wrack my brain into the early morning hours, and I find the answer. It is everything. Everything and nothing.

I listen to the drunken screams filtering through my window, courtesy of the late-night partygoers. The cheap clock I have stashed away in a drawer continues its incessant tick. I feel as though days pass me by.

I memorize the contents of my room under a cloak of darkness. Every photograph, every book, every candle, every poster, every scrap of paper, every stray piece of clothing. It’s all me. But not quite.

In the morning, hours before my alarm is set to go off, I’m stirred from my troubled sleep. The early morning sun oozes through my blinds, and I turn away. I bury my face into the pillow, trying to reclaim that state of unconsciousness. Somehow, the time passes, and I linger in a state somewhere between asleep and awake.

I stare at my alarm clock, dreading the moment it goes off. The CD player cues up, and I silence it before the song begins.

I stumble into the bathroom, where I see in the mirror a face that has become all too familiar: bloodshot eyes, the dark circles that cower beneath them, the disheveled hair, and my mouth affixed into the state of a permanent yawn.

I turn on the water for a shower as I try to wake up from the sleep that only continues to sap the life from me.