a time for transition

eyes sliding unfocused, loosely over the room, alighting now upon the mirrored exterior of a phone. still need to buy a real alarm clock, but what's the point? it shuttles back and forth, rattling, piping out now with rapid, heavy notes. the wind-up happened while i was still asleep, so then at some point on a sliding scale the more shrill tones waged a spatial-war, flexing in and out of real dimensions, with the caverns of my dream....eventually popping it, bubble-like; a needle shredding any point will rupture the structure of the whole, and reality cracks its way in on all sides like a cross-firing squad. the rememberance of the dream is lost almost as quickly as an equalizing pressure between those two, encrypted in invisible labyrinths like the air speeding out spherically, practically imperceptible after just a sliver of a moment, but it still has the to impact to make the child shoved down within us cry a little. this is the raw power of the world, calling for voluntary submission. again. after seven 'fuck you' hits of the snooze trigger, i swivel my body towards the edge of the bed so as to expend the minimal amount of energy possible for this first of the rote motions.

since stability is the foundation of comfort and possibly productivity, the next thirty minutes are precisely the same as they were the day before, and the day before that, back until the last time that the horizon of the day showed signs of different terrains to navigate. not counting weekends and christian-administered holidays, that seems like a long time ago. shower shave (maybe) food teeth hair door hallway elevator small talk garage street light highway parking lot, thank providence for unnasigned parking spots. even when broken down, these activities remain generally the same; it is usually best to wash the body starting from the top, down. it makes more sense. sometimes my shampoo smells different...green apple puts me in a slightly better mood unless a random sud finds its way into my eye. but they all could do that, technically, so it is no reason to discriminate against the apple. still it seems like it happens more often with that one.

it doesn't all hit me, the nausea, until that corridor at work. you know the one; it has bad lighting, or maybe too much lighting. its the longest single distance you walk during that first hour, and such it occasions a moment of reflection about how today is practically indistinguishable from the previous eighty. so far. i see a few of the same people, but not necessarily always the same ones...our patterns of existence are convergent. maybe there is something to astrology after all; orbits roping close enough exchange a smile or a g'morning how are you, but then they are past before they get a chance to reciprocate the question, and nobody cares. maybe there is nothing to astrology.

it isn't a sickness sort of nausea, no, it is perhaps more sartrean. it is a sleepiness; my sleepiness, as i would be loathe to impose it on anybody unchecked even though it probably exists even more prominently in them. scapegoat it if you like, it's all the same. it's the antithesis of the hiking trail derailment, the adventure. it's the low-pile monochromatic carpet, it's the controlled thermostat. it's the absence of elasticity; it's, stasisticity. it's when you trick yourself into thinking that something is different because you drink a smoky tea instead of a green tea, or when you take a hallway that is an obviously less-direct route but hey, you're feeling saucy. and it's all fine...but who has ever been content with just being fine?

and i stop in the corridor, the reflective one. i smell the air, recycled, metallic. it pumps through this building day and night, and it really is entire a mystery to me whether or not it ever escapes. i am inside the balloon, i am in a dream, and there is a natural existence outside of it. this life sits still, confined by walls of concrete painted for appeal, busy and bustling inside but with a series of the strangest concerns and intentions. the atrium is actually quite nice, but it suffers the same detraction as it is technically aiding this intricate system of distractions, of false focii. and i turn on my heel, 180, and i break from that box, that plane, that pressure system. the air outside is clean, fresh, crisp; the breeze swirls around me; i can see it, there are leaves caught up inside of it. i can *see*, the breeze; i can feel it smell it taste it hear it, and it is entirely real in this moment. this is an intoxicating notion to me. it is all part of this pressure, this monstrous enigma of life. i presume that the air inside the box makes it outside eventually, and i see in my head a cartoon rendition of the trees artfully cleansing it; stripping it of its crooked impurities and breathing it back onto the planet; it drifts like dandelion seeds and curls its way around everything. i am swept by these ideas; i dissipate inside of the breeze and my consciousness is eclipsed in a sequencing or perhaps madness of molecules, and the smaller bits which molecules would consider to be molecular. i am lost and found, and where i go from there, i cannot say.