Five more minutes, ten more minutes, my morning mantra on that day. My bed is too good, almost magical. I want to sleep. No human should feel this good on a bed. It should be a sin. It is a drug like music and that too is a sin. I just want five more minutes.

The beyond my bed would not allow me more time. I only take ten minutes more; I lie in bed awake; I review my plan for the day. Nothing would be a perfect plan, but I have a habit of planning and always finding work to do. I love my projects. I love volunteering. But today, I do not feel the drive. All I need is five more minutes.

Sleep is not resting; They were wrong for saying that. Sleep is slipping, escaping, and jumping over. It is a break from plans and projects. It is a break from what we do not want. How could it be resting when all I feel now in my chest is as yarn yet to be used? It wishes to beat faster in response to an emotion. To give more to anything but to what I do not know.

I will tend to this numb wound in ignorance because this weight feels right to me. The sad, the pain and the hurt feel deserved. It satisfies some part of me. Does that make sense? I feel it everywhere coming from the pulse. I call it the cleansing. The pulse pours into long vessels to clean and ready my body for the better days. Or at least I hope it does. It is like this body knows there will be a better day but could not seem to believe it. I could only see the shadow behind the light now. “It will pass. For how could there be light without the dark?” “When?”

The alarm on my phone rings again after I snoozed it. I decided to give myself an hour more. I start playing a game I love. People get tired of people so; how could we not get tired of ourselves? I play a game of forgetting me; I find stories to escape into. But I can’t read my books today. Words cannot seamlessly form pictures in my mind as they used to. So, I fall into a moving picture. I watch my favorite one. I become the character, the lead. I am no longer in my bed but in the beginning scene, behind the character, her shadow lies on me, but my shape and size could not fit into her well-endowed body that is, her curves and height. I am neither too small nor too big. So, I prefer the dark where his shadow could not be seen. And mine is lost. she says my favorite line. “Beauty is the creation of scars,”

My ribs bend from the weight inside. The words get me every time. The pulse against my left lung gets lighter and stronger; too much for the narrow vessels. My eyes stream down the water it has collected from the oceans we all swim in sometimes. Her despair, I feel it in me. She gives me a reason to be sad. I never had one. Knock knock They open my door and come in. Hands and happy voices of my brothers, mother, and father get me out of bed. They pull me up, take my covers and tell me it is breakfast time. They say it is not time for movies.

I love them. Oh, I do but today is not my day to feel love. The dust and dark have covered the pulse. It is cleaning the rest of my body and has not reached to clean itself yet. It beats against the narrow path forgetting the way to itself. After changing into clothes that hurt to worry about and with a plan I do not want anymore, I head to breakfast. But not before I need paper and a pen and need to be in my secret office, the bathroom.

I sit down on the bathroom floor against the wall. It is so cold it stings my behind. I use my pen and paper and write. The cracked concrete beauty we form makes in such times worth my lost hours. In my broken verses and misspelled words, I search for the light and look for the hidden gems in the dark. You do not stop writing. You take water from the well and when it is full you get up and go. When I have said all I had to, I go. My Brothers, mother, and Father call incessantly for me to come eat. I clean up and go out of the bathroom. For the rest of the day, I do not smile as much. I do not talk or joke as I used to but is a day that will also pass. There will be brighter days, and the rays will be even sunnier and I will forget this day. It is a necessary cycle

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