A Day In The Life

Everything hurts.

The moment I wake a buzzing takes up residence in my ears joined by the slow throb of a building headache. I register the protest in each limb, in every joint, and fight to justify the worth of movement. My bed is warm, comfortable, and cooing soft unspoken invitations to remain enveloped and invisible to the world. Somewhere a clock ticks and sparks an urgency elsewhere deep in my brain. Some get to sleep in on Sunday, but I am not one of them.

Opening my eyes a ray of morning slips past the defense of my windows and finds my face. It takes me a moment to shrug off the stabbing jolt of sunshine and I curse recovering the few thoughts popped into being by my alarm. Sitting up takes a little effort, so I roll over and reach out on instinct. The moment my fingers scrape the empty place at my side I remember and forget everything else. Eventually, my dog nudges me and on autopilot I rise, pull on a pair of sweatpants, and take her outside. Once I have coffee I will be people again, or at least a reasonable facsimile.

— To Be Continued

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