Waking

Have you ever felt... the breath of expiring slumber? When the sun forays into consciousness so raw, that you remain caroused in blissful illusion?

Have you ever felt... the breath of expiring slumber? When the sun forays into consciousness so raw, that you remain caroused in blissful illusion? The ceiling becomes pure skin, porcelain white and distorted with perfection. Vision smattered with fog and rain blur as if looking through a stormy window, and lights commence a frenzied dance with the tremor of your gaze. Clutched in your hands, sheets dripping with pits and falls of morning light becomes your willing ward. And you wish you can remain there forever, drifting in and out of oblivion. There, you're just a beating heart, a receptical of feeling. Just simply... living.

And it feels so good for that brief interlude. Then... an intake of breath, and you breathe in the syllables of your expectations, the wired fences of your variance. Once again you find yourself behind plexiglass and hard, reproachful stares. Your vision becomes painfully clear and... the magic recedes. Not just from the moment but from memory, fleeing like a hellmoth that returns naught but for the insensate void.

You can't control the features that change in your mirror everyday. You can't control the way time abuses her power to sway. You can't control everything. But you can... sit by the sill to trance liquid snakes off your window. Watch as moths flutter from their stopgap canopy by porchlight, and consume the lights. Be glad you humored your suspicion... of the coming morn.

The End

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