Ante Meridiem

A sly bit of a breeze contrives with the sun
To let hunks of yellow light slice through the curtains.
They shatter like tile squares when they hit the carpet,
Warming the cold night air around the edges,
Like the first crispy browning of a baking crust.

I keep quiet and still
So that timid wakefulness can seep through my limbs on its own,
Until a unexpected stretch clasps my muscles in its sudden fist
And gets consciousness pumping more efficiently up and down my veins.
Wakefulness shies and gallops like a startled saddle horse.

But before it has even reached my brain I begin clicking through the possibilities for what day it might be. A weekend? I feel so calm, not a hint of urgency, so perhaps...No! Because it is Friday, I must get up! and adrenaline slaps me in the face with the realization. But no, I'm off today, and my mind flicks luxuriously through the wide, blank expanse of Friday, Saturday, Sunday. My soggy mind roars to life like a projector, and flickering images fill the day with the to-do list slide, clicking from vacuuming, to the bank, to groceries to homework.

The empty hours blink with recreational options and I probe my emotions to discover what I am hankering to fill them with: disc golf? reading? motorcycle? And clothes. Choosing them each day is a delicate skill; one must empty one's mind and let skim lightly over the racks, flip through the stacks in the dresser, until one option articulates exactly what I feel like for that day.

But the moment my alarm rings, my elaborate constructed day disintegrates into distraction, and my tremulous grip on consciousness breaks loose as my organizational efforts are washed downstream by startled adrenaline. The projector crashes and dims. The fragments of my planning, lingering shreds of dream and the yellow shards of sunlight flee the spotlight of reality, scurrying into still dim and indistinct crevasses of my mind. Consciousness washes over me like a power washer: my eyes are wide and my mind is tabula rasa.