Writing Exercise, March 31
The prompt: Every morning...
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Every morning, when he woke, it was to the sound of the alarm blaring on the night stand close to his ear. He never needed more than a few of those shrill rings to be drawn up out of his slumber, no matter how deep it might have been. Dreams had no defense against it. He was the alarms slave. He took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one. But only a little.
There was a routine, every morning, weither work beckoned or not. Covers up, glasses on, to his feet before trudging off to face the day. He had read about sleep and routines in some magazine in a doctors office once, one of those psudo-medical journals that those in the medical profession figure are dumbed down enough so the rest of the world can figure them out. It had said, he recalled clearly, that it is a good idea to wake up at the same time every single morning. And, being in the state he had been at the time and quite desperate to try just about anything, he had. And the habit had merely stuck.
He couldn't honestly say weither or not it had done anything for the better.
He pulled the blinds open after having navigated his way out of the bedroom into the small living room of the flat, flooding the room with the early light of the morning, still tinged with the oranges of sunrise. He leaned against the window, despite the crew neck and striped boxers that adorned him, and looked outside at the day. Birds were singing, one or two people jogging, all the things he saw every single morning. They no longer held his attention. Morning was not his time, though he greeted it everday.
Leaving the window to itself and the world for later he shuffled into the kitchen where the pot was already half full from the automatic brew setting. Just enough time to make up some toast. There were very, very few things in his life he liked, or was even proud of, but toast and coffee, that was something he... if he couldn't like, could at least take comfort in. It was his, no matter how many other people in the wide world out there were having the exact same thing. It was his, in his kitchen, and in his life.
Breakfast, then a quick shower, shave, brushing of teeth, and dressing. And then work, as it was five out of the seven days of the week. His routine. Always.
He hardly even noticed when the phone suddenly rang...
-
Every morning, when he woke, it was to the sound of the alarm blaring on the night stand close to his ear. He never needed more than a few of those shrill rings to be drawn up out of his slumber, no matter how deep it might have been. Dreams had no defense against it. He was the alarms slave. He took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one. But only a little.
There was a routine, every morning, weither work beckoned or not. Covers up, glasses on, to his feet before trudging off to face the day. He had read about sleep and routines in some magazine in a doctors office once, one of those psudo-medical journals that those in the medical profession figure are dumbed down enough so the rest of the world can figure them out. It had said, he recalled clearly, that it is a good idea to wake up at the same time every single morning. And, being in the state he had been at the time and quite desperate to try just about anything, he had. And the habit had merely stuck.
He couldn't honestly say weither or not it had done anything for the better.
He pulled the blinds open after having navigated his way out of the bedroom into the small living room of the flat, flooding the room with the early light of the morning, still tinged with the oranges of sunrise. He leaned against the window, despite the crew neck and striped boxers that adorned him, and looked outside at the day. Birds were singing, one or two people jogging, all the things he saw every single morning. They no longer held his attention. Morning was not his time, though he greeted it everday.
Leaving the window to itself and the world for later he shuffled into the kitchen where the pot was already half full from the automatic brew setting. Just enough time to make up some toast. There were very, very few things in his life he liked, or was even proud of, but toast and coffee, that was something he... if he couldn't like, could at least take comfort in. It was his, no matter how many other people in the wide world out there were having the exact same thing. It was his, in his kitchen, and in his life.
Breakfast, then a quick shower, shave, brushing of teeth, and dressing. And then work, as it was five out of the seven days of the week. His routine. Always.
He hardly even noticed when the phone suddenly rang...
posted by Gabriel | 1:03 PM
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