Waking Up in the Morning: A Rant
By Albert Qian, Woodbridge High School
The day is stifling, suffocating. The floor is cold, so very cold. I remember the slippers, where, millions of years ago, my mother reminded me to put next to my bed. They aren't here though. They never are. Why? For what reason do I get up in the morning? For what reason do I uncover the shroud that is everything, everything that I hold dear; the haunting, dreary realization of the obligations I carry manifest, and for what? I don't know. Every night, I pray the day will not come. Every day, I pray the night will not come. The meticulous thought of counting every single hour, every single minute, every single second until it comes again, when the jarring, piercing, thing I can only call a scream shocks; no, pries me from a land where I could be happy. A land where, when I close my eyes, I understand. What bliss is. It's the promise of nothing, where time itself seems to stop, when you cannot count the seconds, cannot count the minutes, you CANNOT count the hours until your more pressing obligations call – or, for lack of a better term, drag you into what I can only describe as a perpetual grayness. But time and time again, I do it. For who? Is it for myself? Is it for my parents? The lingering, lustful thought at the back of my mind, that I could go back to the clouds, where god is kind to me, stays. I ponder upon it, wondering when the broken thing I call my will is going to give in. Maybe it already has, I don't know. Do I? The icy air does little more than remind me of what's to come. The little bits of joy in life are sapped, eroded, then disappear altogether in the darkness. The sun is never out in this time. Sometimes I wonder if it ever is. I always question myself, why do I do this to myself? My eyes droop, my heart sags. Everything is a chore. The only thing that seems to exist in this universe is at the back of my head. Running in circles, around and around, each one more exhausted and futile than the last. The excuses I know I'll never use. I can't use them. A million miles away, a breakfast awaits me. If you can call it that. It's never really a breakfast. The only thing it is is the materialistic representation of a maternal need, fueled more by narcissistic reasons than love, to provide for an offspring; an obligation. She owes me nothing. That's why she does it for herself. In better days, I would enjoy it. Better days. My mind, a rusted, broken, clockwork of a machine is already finished off. I don't try anymore. I never really try anymore. The mint in the toothpaste is bitter. Memories of times when I wasn't grateful. I always took time for granted. Water cupped in my hands, really. Time knows you take it for granted, and it really beats the living daylights out of you because of it. It never stops now though. The splash of water on my face washes away any persisting fantasies. So cold, so bitterly, bitingly cold today. The weather seems to mock me, it always does. Layer upon layer gradually warm up my skin, but to no comfort to me. Later in the day, it will be hot. Sweltering, even. I'll take off my sweatshirt, my jacket, and put it under my desk. I'll forget it. I'll be scolded. Even now, I'm tempted to just take them off now. But I don't. I never will. My jeans are always too loose or too tight. They're never just right. Even now, the single thought, still there, whispers to me. I could just stop. I could just give up. I don't owe anyone anything.
