WA 9, Draft 3
wish I could be one of those people who wakes up and is immediately flooded with the inclination that life is a wonderful thing. Maybe i would even sit up in bed, do one of those cliché yawns, hands reaching up over my shoulders, fingers outstretched. Unfortunately, my usual waking routine could be considered about as graceful as trying to rip the leg off of a chicken that isn’t quite dead yet. Or maybe a more accurate comparison would be that I am said dying chicken trying to hold onto its severed leg, desperately trying to cling to my last remnant of untainted thought- my sleep. I don’t understand how I know waking is coming and yet it still hits me like a bus every goddamned morning. It’s like my life is moving in slow motion—one of those horrid movies where you know what’s going to happen within the first five minutes, and you spend the rest of the film trying uselessly to warn the protagonist of the plight that you know is waiting for him.…and I don’t think it was always like this. I used to actually find joy in things. Is it natural to spend so much time thinking over days in memoriam? Is it normal to mourn what has gone by? I mean, quite honestly, what really documents that we have ever existed, if not? And really, does change ever actually occur--because it certainly feels like my days are pretty comparable to the same reruns of Rugrats and Ren & Stimpy that my little brother watches on cartoon network repeatedly. I don’t see how people become so settled in their routines—was I really put here to wake up late at exactly 6:57, roll out of bed, hunker down to work, and repeat? I suppose for some, it is nice to think but nothing but the next moment, to live for an exactly penciled in routine. I suppose maybe that’s why I make myself miserable. I suppose that’s why I just can’t seem to roll my butt out of bed at the right time every morning. I suppose that is why i have sucked away whatever energy is left from my body by the end of the day. I suppose that is why I have time to suppose all of these things. But really, in that case—does it make a difference if I stop picking my cuticles or look more graceful when I wake up? I would like to think that I spend more time living life than thinking about it, but I suppose I have proved myself wrong in any case. My simple question is—is the chicken’s struggle to keep its leg the reason for its own death?
posted by Marigene Willson @ 3:06 PM
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