Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

10 AM.

I woke up today with my hair more tousled than it usually is (and, if you know me personally, that’s quite the feat), and with sheets and mind uncouth. Standing up to make my way to heed morning hygene needs led to me tripping first over myself, before tripping over a pair of pants and towards the door that leads toward the hallway. No matter how tired I am, the past few weeks I haven’t been able to sleep past the hour of 10 in the morning. The floor was cold. My socks had fallen off during the course of the night, and my glasses were still off.

Odd story about the glasses. During the days of my youth, I watched a lot of cartoons and read a lot of books. Specifically, I watched a lot of cartoons less than a meter away from the screen and read a lot of books in the dark, with guided only by the hallway (which, if you pay attention to these kinds of things, is a different hallway from the one I had mentioned in the last paragraph.) light that was a few meter away. My siblings wore glasses. I wanted to wear glasses because I thought they were “cool”. Now, my vision sucks, and I’m left do contemplate whether or not my eyes deteriorated due to genetics, my innate desire to fit in with the glasses-wearing “in” crowd, which contained, pretty much my siblings and assorted characters from assorted shows, or, the strain they underwent after watching the television and reading books in the dark.

The sound of water falling down a drain breaks the silence, and I made my way toward the bed, noting how cold it had gotten in the few minutes I had left it. I hate when that happens. I didn’t even bother fixing the sheets, mussed as if they were occupied by more than the single person they usually accommodate. I tried to go back to sleep.

Funny thing about my dreams. I don’t remember many of them. At least, not the complete stories. Merely snippets of information, which standalone, are nonsense. The other snippets come to me once the others leave the mind, which obviously puts me in predicaments if I were ever to begin writing a “dream diary”. Every few nights, I tend to remember the rumblings of my psyche, for at least the next day, and it’s usually of some nonsense such as myself base-jumping off the Victoria Falls while wrestling a panda bear on a jet pack. I used to think that what I did the instances before sleep would influence the overall ridiculousness of dreams, after all, ridiculous lack of sleep leads to delusions and a restless nap is a dreamless one.

I ended up not falling back to sleep; instead I listlessly made my way toward breakfast. Hunger, it seemed, tends to strike harder when you’re either nervous or tired from the day before. And though this sounds like the aftermath of a night of regrets and escapades of the unmentionable nature, it wasn’t. It was the result of sleeping sometime after the hour of two, a caffeine bender of four coffees, a Coca-Cola, and half of a Dr. Pepper, (mind you, I drink coffee about once a month if at all, and sodas at a biweekly pace at the most), a ridiculous BLT, around six hours or so of standing, and an ill-advised cardboard tube joust.

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