the fabric of mornings
Every morning, I find myself uncertain about what truly stirs me from slumber. It has become a mere obligation, something I must do without fully comprehending the consequences. The weekdays commence abruptly at 4:30 am with the piercing sound of my alarm, after a restless night of tossing and turning. With eyes still closed, I fumble around the bedside, desperately seeking respite from the explosive ringtone assaulting my eardrums. Although my body sinks into the bedsheet like sinking in quicksand, I force myself to gather strength and cleanse away the remnants of drowsiness with a bracing splash of cold water.
There is a peculiar allure to rummaging through my closet, a sense of excitement that arises when selecting my attire for the day. However, this thrill is diminished when performed in the solitude of a still-sleeping world. After pulling garments haphazardly and finally finding satisfaction in my chosen ensemble, it is time to embark on my journey to the train station.
Train rides have always held a certain fascination for me, particularly when the carriages are empty. I often ponder why I willingly subject myself to such an early awakening, only to relish in the solitude of those 20 minutes, perched upon the unyielding seat, gazing out at the tunnel's mysterious interior, surrounded by tranquility and chill. Bus rides, on the other hand, are an entirely different ordeal after 6:30 am; they become a grueling trial.
From 4:30 to 6:30 am, I find myself suddenly deposited at my designated location for five days a week. Armed with a steaming cup of coffee and a modest breakfast, these small indulgences provide the necessary fuel to keep me going in the morning. Prepared to tackle the next nine hours, I settle into my chair and let my fingers dance upon the keyboard. There's an ineffable charm to having the office all to myself, tricking me into believing that if the day unfolded in this manner, work wouldn't be so bad. Alas, that illusion is short-lived.
One by one, individuals enter my sphere, some welcomed with anticipation, while others evoke a sense of reluctance that I dare not sugarcoat. Time ambles along, at times crawling, at times sprinting, as I navigate through the demands of the day.
When the clock strikes 4:30 pm, I can no longer contain my impatience, although I must. Slowly, I begin packing my belongings and closing countless tabs, striving to conceal my excitement for the imminent departure. Twenty minutes later, I step out the door, repeating the arduous routine of bus and train rides, devoid of tranquility, burdened with people, stress, and an unyielding, jostling journey.
Upon reaching home, I collapse onto my bed, settling into a routine that may vary, involving dinner, a shower, and other necessary tasks. Before I know it, I am once again succumbing to sleep, and in the blink of an eye, it is 4:30 am once more.
Five days a week, I find myself questioning the true impetus behind my awakening. The answer eludes me, slipping through my fingers like sand.
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