At ten to nine my eyes opened.
Still tired, but glad to be pulled away from the nightmare. The usual sort of nightmare; a reminder of failures and failings, my sleeping mind reinforcing waking beliefs about the futility of everything.
I wake from imagined reality to the more comfortable doubtful reality. Experiencing the regular sense of apartness from a world I observe happening around me. Each day I must prepare myself to interact with the denizens of this world. I often wonder if they’re real, or if they’re simulacrums generated by my imagination, given form, and set free to follow their own paths.
When you think about it, and I often do, everything is mostly made of nothing. Vast, incomprehensible amounts of nothing. And none of that even exists without a consciousness to observe it. Are you real..? Am I..? Am I running on a computer programme somewhere? If so, it must be a rather gloomy personage that’s playing me. Perhaps their lives are chock full of wizardry, wonder and zombies; playing me and my hum-drum life is highly prized escapism.
What I call into existence this morning, as I do every morning, is a large comfortable bed – supporting my family of big dog and three cats – bobbing about in a sea of clothes. The Wardrobe doors are open; displaying the monsters that live within. Fancy dresses that speak of past attempts to conform to something or other. They hang like prized museum pieces. Pristine and untouched in a room especially made to house them. It’s high time the Wardrobe was exorcised of its monsters of lives long dead.
It wasn’t the alarm that woke me. That wouldn’t sound for a while yet. I leave it as late as possible. Not due to a lack of enthusiasm as such, but more because of the constant tiredness. My eyes hurt all day from being forced to stay open. No, what woke me was the young cat climbing in my hair. That, and the aroma of a freshly used litter tray. Not quite in the realms of waking to ground coffee or warm bread, but rather more appropriate for my life and my usual mental state.
So what else can happen on this day, a glum January day when much of the nation sees snow? (But not here, not yet; I’ve not imagined it up for us yet – I want to, but, as we’ve seen from the activities of my turncoat sleeping mind, I’m not in the habit of conjuring happiness.)
This evening heralds the final session of my writing class. This has been a source of inspiration and entertainment – even, at times, an initiator of mirth; something that happens so seldom that I tend to startle myself when I bark out a laugh, rather as the dog startles from an unexpected fart (hers, usually). I’m sorry it’s ending. Aside from its sparking of long dormant imagination neurons, the humans on the course have been fascinating. Writing about the class itself would have been amusing. That’s a story for another time.
Mayhap that’s what this chapter of my life is about: stories. We all have them, all the time. The nothingness of my existence is a story. There’s always something to write about – even if it is the pathetic lonesome sock gathering dust and dog hair on my bedroom floor.