I wake up in the morning. Notably this is not with any pleasure about the sight of the sunlight pouring through my window, the sight of a new day – violent storm clouds are already filling up my mind. An ache in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger suggests that, once again, it is time to perform the Morning Ritual.
Of course I was up too late the night before. I blink awkwardly as the sun assaults dilated pupils, breaking and entering my retinas without so much as a warrant. But as I check my clock, I of course discover that I haven’t even the smallest amount of time to gather my wits; I’m running late for my bus, which in turn means I’m running late for a lecture at university that I probably shouldn’t miss.
I stumble slightly upon rising, stagger to the side, and stub my toe on the way out of my room. The tight feeling inside my chest is telling me stop, please, you’ll feel much less ill if you just lie back down, but I know better. I’ll feel a different kind of ill if I lie back down; the sickness of mind that comes with being irresponsible.
I’m blinking again. This time my eyes are adjusting, and the pain of exposing them so abruptly to the heavenly stream of protons pouring through my windows is waning. Now I’m in the kitchen, searching, searching…
One switch. Click!
The kettle boils. Tea is poured into my steeper. And then the concoction brews in my mug.
Finally, I drink, and the debris floating in the air from the chaos of the morning drops to the floor, allowing it to be swept away and ignored. Another morning is triumphed over.
… But there’ll always be tomorrow.