A Month of Mondays

I used to wake up with ideas, mantras that marched through my head throughout the night.

Sometimes writing is to me like a mirror in the desert. I can see the mirror, but I have trouble seeing what I am looking at.

In the desert, everything exists in a vacuum. It’s impossible to quantify anything in it, as borders are awash in sand, and the lack of water means I can never visit for very long, before I’m awake and sweating in bed.

Getting up first thing in the morning, when its still dark out, the prayers, meditation and silent drumming in my head that drags me telepathically to coffee, the gravity and lack of grace as I prepare breakfast, a series of button-pressing that yields reheated food from the freezer. I think I have to open some sort of box in order to get there.

I kiss my wife goodbye, a pair of lips in the darkness, not connected to anything but the scratchy voice that reminds me of the love I have.

It’s a straight walk to the door, and with that comes the first actual thoughts of the day, of deadlines, excuses and expectations. It’s sometime after this when I drift off, the drive to work so familiar as not to warrant too much interest. It’s autopilot with my favorite soundtrack.

It’s still dark when I get to school, the brick stretched out across half a city block, rising up out of the wet tarmac, declaring itself with a shade darker than the clouds that stick around until well after nine am, when I stare out at it out of a small porthole in my second period class.

I don’t see genuine daylight until I leave most days, it heals after its too late, and I head home, scatter-brained into coming back on different day. I might live through two days until tomorrow, will see what tonight brings.