Wake Up

lastone

Waking up can sometimes mean a slog. The dread of waking up an hour before the alarm goes off, hands groping for your phone to stop its banshee-like screech. Laying there in the sweat addled sheets for as long as you can before the daylight beckons you up. Forced to look in the bathroom mirror at all your collective flaws and faced with the colossal task of trying to fix it. Hair disarrayed, face reddened and teeth never quite as white as the world would say they should be.

Coffee long ago stopped having the desired effect. No further awakening after forcing the scalding liquid down your throat. Gifting you a quickening of the heart and a haze over the mind. As if you’d fallen back asleep rather than force yourself awake. Breakfast is a sorry affair, food made to fill the pit. The day rises and falls, flying by at the speed of an oozing wound. A day of guarded words and hidden meanings behind each spill of the lips. To come home again at the end of the night with even less energy than you had before. The effort of the world drawn tight across your shoulders. Or perhaps the effort of your charade, to keep the world at bay. Arms held at length to stop them from looking too closely at your heart, for looking too long.

Returning to the empty room, sheets cold and lights left off. Through it all, it’s as if you’d never woken up. Stepping through life as if the world would fall apart if you looked to hard. Focussed too much on the details around you to the point that the illusion fell away and the cruel joke that is reality would reveal itself. Soft, caressing, daylight would turn to bright white spotlights – the gaze of the world falling upon you with a glare and a hissed comment from their hands.

Maybe the world would be easier if it were fake if the world was some cruel joke played on the humanity. Laid upon the sheets, tangled in the fabric like an insect upon the web. Trying, for some reason, to bury yourself deeper rather than drag yourself free. Ignore the world, ignore what they say, but most of all to ignore what you’re doing to yourself. Sitting in the dark, wrapped in your own denial waiting for the world to change around you.

Then the door unlocks. With a creak of old, rusted, metal it swings open. With it the warm air from the winds outside, cutting through the chill laying over you. A light seems to break through the rooms, even with all the switches keeping their heads down. A shock of electricity runs through the house and the hands that unlocked that door come to pull you free of those webs. Peeling away the webs and replacing their stranglehold with the warm grace of their arms around you. Gentle hugs and hands to remind you that the world isn’t something to ignore.

Through all the storms that it will rage, through all the shadows it will cast. It can never rain forever. In those moments all the skies clear. Atlas can lay down his heavyweight upon the shoulders of another, sharing the weight of the world around them. Holding each other up, though we both lay upon the soft mattress. Eyes drifting back to a realm of sleep together, wrapped in each other’s love.

Waking up can sometimes mean a slog. The dread of moving from the bed that hour before the alarm goes off, hands wrapped around another. Laying there in each other’s arms, gazing at their sleeping face for as long as you can before the daylight beckons them awake. Forced with all the time in the world to gaze upon the beautiful woman aside you. Hair disarrayed, face relaxed and lips party to ever slightly reveal the teeth behind her smile.

We’ll make coffee in an hour or so. Sit next to one another with a breakfast we made together. An affair more of a game than an effort to feed our growling stomachs. The day will raise and grow, but we’ll grow with it. Taking in the warm rays of the sunlight through the hours. Together with heads held high we’ll begin to work through the next day and day after next. Not every day to fight to stay above the water and most days together; two women, two people, very much in love.

Waking up is sometimes a moment to be alive.

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About P. Anthony

Writer
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