Wakin' up

Morning ain't my time of day. Of course, I ain't the only one to say so. Lots of people ain't morning people, or so they claim. But today, once more, I realize that the first hour or so after I wake up is really just a long, drawn-out purgatory, through which I need to proceed before coming finally into my own.

It's not that I'm completely unable to function. I can do simple tasks, such as brewing up some coffee, or reading some piece of news I don't really care about. But I sure as hell ain't happy about it.

Everything that needs doing in the morning gets on my nerves, and, still so close to the sweet bliss of sleep, I feel lazy as fuck. My eyes are open, and my brain is trying to switch from the loose logic of dreams to the cold rationality of day. But my body seems pretty sure that someone, somewhere, made a mistake. “Get back to bed”, it whispers, like a lover when I leave to make breakfast.

The numbness leaves my limbs slowly, reluctantly, as the blood starts pumping with more force. The coffee, supposed to speed up the process, tastes bitter, unfriendly almost, as if going against the natural order of things. Everything is somehow wrong, and I wonder what is going on in this world, to force a man to go through this ordeal day after day.

It doesn't matter whether I slept for four hours or for twelve. Whether it's a lazy Sunday or a hectic Monday. Whether I'm going to work or whether I'm on holiday. Whether I wake up alone in the dark, or with somebody next to me in the sunshine of early afternoon. That first hour won't ever be as good as the rest of the day.

I tried to let go of it altogether. To stop sleeping, so I don't have to wake up. But it didn't work. And no matter how shitty I feel when I do, I wake up anyway. So I don't know about you, but as far as I'm concerned, there sure as hell ain't no god!