In the morning my head is constipated. My eyelids are pull down by tiny powerful ghosts. The dryness of the dessert inhabits my mouth and every muscle is weighed down by the unstoppable day ahead. What to concentrate on? The eyes, the mouth, the body or the broken pieces left by by dreams? I choose neither and pull the blankets a little higher, making sure the cover my neck. Two minutes later, the bed is burning and kicking me away. So I lift the blankets and stretch a leg out, but remain laying there. My phone says I have 55 minutes to leave the house on time. Is that enough? It's been enough before. I just need 15 minutes for showering and dressing, 15 minutes for grooming and hair and 15 minutes for breakfast and making sure I'm taking everything I need. That's leaves me a 10 minute room. I lean harder towards my pillow and my body instantly reminds me of its exhaustion and disgust for me. "You're so lazy". I am. I am. What else am I? My mind offers a list of faults, no positive qualities. I blame myself for being this way. But then I can only feel the tornado in my mouth, leaving trash and desolation and a paralyzing silence. I'm about to get up and get water, but I'm stock in the though of why? Why didn't I leave a glass of water in my night table yesterday? Because I'm lazy, my mind screams that and pounds on my skeleton for emphasis. It pounds and pounds and pounds. I have only 45 minutes left, and as soon as I see that in the screen I know I'll take an extra five. I'll push getting up as if pushing the day away. I remember something in the dream about my mom, she wasn't speaking, just staring. There was some sort of public celebration on the streets, the streets of where? For the last minute, I debate myself: "I'll move in the next ten seconds... or the next". Pulling some hidden power to finally push my body up, I feel my heart sinking back and it takes a herculean strength to bring it up with me. There goes my reservoir of energy for the next 24 hours. I'm already depleted.
1 year ago 💎 for day 168, 2019 with 377 words.
Trying to practice fiction writing. Mexican with passion for all things millennial: traveling, photography and social justice.
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