This is a story that I'm writing chapter by chapter that will go through one day in the life of several modern people. The work will focus on life - the big ideas and the small minutiae. I don't know where each chapter will take me right now as I have only thought about the beginning and the ending. I would LOVE any feedback about everything from writing style to theme.
"Fuck," I muttered sharply without moving.
It was morning. It had crept up like a silent assassin and before I could even appreciate the hours of quiet repose it was glaringly bright morning. I would like the morning better if it didn't hurt so much to leave the bountiful, warm covers.
It was like going through the five stages of grief. Denial is when I hit the snooze button and pretend like I don't even have anything to do today. Anger is when I realize that I have now overslept and I'm going to be late for the things that I actually have to do today. Bargaining is when I weigh whether it's okay to be late, or whether I should just forget about it and stay in bed. Depression is the last tender moments I stay in the warm embrace. Acceptance is grudgingly accomplished when I throw the blankets off and step my feet onto the cool floor.
Quickly I walked over to the wardrobe and shimmied on some socks. The tracings of a dream drift in slowly only to fade away as I grasp to remember more and more. The last few specks fall through the sieve and I'm left with a half-sketch of an old acquaintance and a few familiar haunts. It felt good to have dreams back despite what little there was of them. I felt like I went somewhere, accomplished something. It was definitely better than the heavy coma that used to swallow up all my nights. Then, I was left with nothing to indicate whether the night had even occurred. I could have been dead for two minutes for all I know.
I start straining to remember more from the dream. It feels like frantically sifting through papers and files, and paper in files, without being able to locate anything. I switch to remembering the day before. That's easier but not by much I scoff to myself. Even remembering what I ate is an exercise in consciousness.
My eyes skim the carelessly neat clothing hanging in a row. Denim draped over the crook of metal wire. All facing the same way and none of them ironed. Organized chaos. The uniform is simple. Denim jeans, a neutral coloured shirt, straight hair. The uniform is not the part that I care about, although I wish I could. I'm much more inclined to the face.
In the mirror I know that my gaze softens, my eyebrows raise slightly and my lips purse. A self-preservation tactic? I'm trying to look my best in my reflection so that I can pretend that this is how I look even when I can't see myself. But, it's only a reflection, who knows what everyone else sees?
The creamy white lotion smooths over my face with the promise of perfecting pores. It feels cool and sinks into the circular motions that I work it in with. Skip foundation since I haven't found one that doesn't age my skin about 10 years. Straight to concealer to be applied with the light caress of the ring finger. Soft purple scars and red outlines are calmed with concealer that is the colour that skin should be. A big, fluffy brush swirls into the expensive powder picking up smooth amounts to lay onto the skin. The whole face becomes one - clean and simple.
A brush dipped in a dark, brown colour shades the eyebrows a deep, dark hue. They pop on the smooth skin and enhance the eyes. Highlight the brow bone and the eyelid with a soft, glowing shade of champagne. Line the eyes with brown liner, two coats of mascara for deep eyelashes. A gentle dusting of blush. The routine is complete and the outcome is the same. A better version of the same face.
A glance in the mirror before breezing out the door. I look acceptable. There is no reason to be ashamed about putting effort into my appearance and my style. There is no reason to be ashamed.