the tragedy of waking

Every night before going to sleep, I tell myself that I will get around to doing it, tomorrow. It can be anything you like: I will go running tomorrow. I will write about that idea I had tomorrow. I will buy my camera tomorrow. I will go have a nice walk tomorrow. I will start being like I was before, tomorrow. But every morning when I wake up, I don't do any of these things.

I find myself paralyzed, engulfed by my blankets which so softly and safely wrap around me. I let my mind go idle so that I can pretend that I will get going in around five minutes, but that I get to stay there up to two hours in perfectly safe idleness.

There is something I do not have, something I'm missing. It seems as though I have always been missing something. Sometimes my own mind illuminates itself and shows me what it is I'm missing and what I must do to get it, but all of these times it scares me and so I let myself, once again, go idle.

"It's like I can't let myself be happy" I told him once, "it's like I feel myself being happy, and it makes me feel uncomfortable so I work hard to find something to break".

Mornings, you should have pity of me and last longer, cradle me a bit longer in your dewy arms going "shh, it's quiet now, see? shh,". Instead you slip away with the hours, letting noon violently cut into you. Your embrace breaks, and I, out of my safe morning embrace, fall hard onto the cold ground.

I've never been unconscious but I do wish I had been sometimes. (So that I would be good at pretending to be it). At least that could maybe be an excuse. I sometimes work hard to induce myself into unconsciousness "maybe if I close my eyes and slow my breathing it'll happen". But I'm still there, quite aware.
I open my eyes and noon is staring me in the face, dark circles under his eyes to reflect my own. Noon looks much like me really, like morning abandoned him much too soon. Dull purplishness around his cheeks and tiny shoulders. Noon is lucky though, because nature's told him what he has to do and how to do it. He has his own role and is happy with it, and he is good at it, and he does it every day. And nature is glad, and she will hire him again and again without a second thought.

He doesn't have to prove himself. He just gets the job. He doesn't understand then, why I'm still sitting in my bed when he comes around. He's seen all the others he's come to visit leave their beds and go out their doors along with rushy Morning. "So why are you still here?".
- "Well, Noon, I don't know."
- "Well, why don't you go have a shower and get dressed?"
- "I will in a minute".

I will in a minute. It will be done. I will do it. I'll drag myself out of bed and undress and go stand naked under the burning water. And while I'm there, I will, in my mind, solve every little problem I have made up for myself inside my head and I will perfectly plan out my future, I will decide on what I need to do to start making it all happen. It's as if I were building an armour of projects and decisions and ideas around me, this one armour, this one thing is what I need to go out into the world and face all of the things and the faces that compose it.

Then I step out of the shower, and as I pat myself dry, I feel every single part of my armour fall off and land loudly on the floor -a big clank that makes me blink my eyes, and they fall one after the other with their big loud clanks and so when it is done I am quite stunned from the noise that there is a ringing in my ear which soothes me back into bed -clean now, and tells me to wait it out. Wait it out, still.