Please decribe getting up in the morning in as accurate and honest manner possible.

It’s tricky. I’ve been in the process for the last twenty minutes or so, but still the details have faded.

It starts with a dream that I can barely remember (something about work, timetables and redundancy and wardrobes and caravans) and slowly fades into the pecking chicken outside. This is immediately followed by my Alarm Call (sung by Björk on tiny tinny telephone speakers). I push the torrent of noise under a pillow, pressing a button to delay it another ten minutes.

(One more snooze, then I’d better get up and start writing).

As I close my eyes and bury myself in another pillow in search of comfort, a variety of sensations start to register. My face is heavy with the fudge of sleep, the slowness is already wrapped around me. The weight of the duvets at least present some kind of distraction, but my face, sensitive and exposed, feels the opposite, encased, encrusted and slowed to a treacle.

As my brain starts to wander back towards dreams. I notice my erection.

(At this point (in the writing, not in the waking) I am forced to debate the line between accurate honesty and simply filling a page with smut, I’ll try and walk a line between the two).

I masturbate, fantasising simply, lolling from side to side under the dense weight of mattress. My mind wanders as this happens, stirring different parts of my brain. It’s not all sex, a million thought processes are being woken up by this action. But it’s the thought that motivates the other thoughts into action. Memory and imagination tease each other.

Who knows what the future holds.

(At some point in this process, the alarm goes off again, and I turn it off, optimistically hoping I won’t need to be alarmed again).

My body wakes up along with my brain. This mutual process stirs each part of

I come, and my back collapses from its arch, and I bury myself again. Much more content. I could drift back to sleep, but I keep an awareness of time passing present.

Little tiny half dreams scatter and flit around my brain. They’ve all vanished by now, but they were there. If I’d known I’d be writing about them, I would have grasped harder and kept a hold, but somehow I suspect that would’ve stopped their dance some.

I even remember one that made me think ‘I must remember that’. But I can’t remember.

I am falling back to sleep. But there is work to do.

I try and snap my eyes open. Create some kind of pulse inside me. I can see the sky white with brightness outside. The chickens are still pecking.

The horror of thickness that is the inside of my mouth becomes too much just as I remember the glass of water I left on the mantel above my head.

I bolt upright, grab the glass and drink, hungrily.

I lean back, pillows upright.

I am awake.

I wonder what today’s question is.

Illustration Lucy.

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About Alabaster Crippens

Joiner of Dots. Player of Games. Unreliable Narrator. Dancing Fool.
This entry was posted in Illustrations by Lucy, Questions by Alex P. Bookmark the permalink.

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