entelein | The early morning blues, Monday style

Each alarm clock has a declaration of intent, and in the morning chill this one is mixed with talk radio and muffled curses at the darkness. The sheer dread, tamped into place the night before, brewed up strong and nasty overnight: it's a caul of bitter and reluctant on my tongue. Outside, so many roads whiz by in fast-forward motion, the streams of light illuminating where I am. It is not where I thought I'd be.

Socked fleet planted on floor, elbows resting on bare knees, boxer shorts and t shirt the only protection from the late autumn chill. I sleep just fine nowadays, but the sleep is laced up with broken thoughts and barbed wire shoulders and bones struggling against twice Earth's gravity.

It's your fault, and yours, and hers, and his, and theirs. It is my choice to keep ramming my skull into this wall.