/lit/ - Literature

This is probably shitty, fuck you.

Another day of this. Waking up sure tires the hell out of me. Sleep works exactly like a shutter. Sometimes the shutter’s cocked for what feels like an eternity, absorbing all the information of the day before and transferring them into a seamless image. Sometimes, the shutter merely blinks, faster than I can bear. This is one of those days. My body feels like driftwood: light and fragile. I rub my eyes to get rid of my grogginess. It doesn’t do much. It’s about 5:30 in the morning. The darkness is still present, and it permeates the whole city. Most people awake at this hour are getting up for work. Routine engraved into their psyche, the city prepares for the procession of survival. They shuffle to the coffee machine. They yawn in the shower. They put on their socks before dusting off their uniform. They lather butter on toast, and cautiously crack eggs open atop a frying pan. They drift out into the dulled luminescence of the streetlights, the hum of the lamps in rhythm with their steps. The same ritualized motions, day after day. It’s enough to make you sick.

Mmm... crinkly.