So Hard to Wake Up

He woke up in the same manner as we went to sleep, in the freezing cold of a suspended night. After five or six attempts at snoozing away the morning, he managed to slump himself to the edge of his bed and sleepily raised himself to his feet. He relished sleeping so much, he was always late, for anything in the morning, all throughout his academic and professional life. People came to know that and accepted it as a quirky character trait. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, or had no respect for appointments or others, he just rather spend his time lost in his own mind, sailing ships or exploring or being terrified by the vaguely descriptive ghosts that sometimes haunt every dream.



Carrying out his early morning duties in a trance, he contemplated the images that projected a foggy haze in his mind. He couldn’t quite find all the pieces of the puzzle, but enough was present to step back and recognize the picture. It made it easier because the dream he remembered was something recurring in the past months. It started with a derelict office building, toppled and crumbled to the floor, and everything was dark and painted with mud. Not knowing how he got there, or where he was, the first instinct was to find his way out of the ruin decay all around him.



Making ground was easier thought than accomplished, ducking under fallen roof, or squeezing past tattered corridors, it was impossible to stay clean. So he got dirty. After what felt to be forever of endless searching and weaving he came to a stop. Reading his surroundings he comfirmed that it all looked the same. As the moments past in the grime of it all, something urgent came over him, suddenly only one thing became clear. RUN! The mud made running an admirable feat, since its thickness swallowed his shoes like a refreshing gulp of water after a laborious day, but ran he did, as quick as could, pulling his feet as they were chained to iron. He came to a fork in the corridor.



Feeling the panic of something unexplained he chose a direction and continued to run. Each step became harder and harder to continue, the mud thicker, deep, darker. Still he plotted on, and before he knew it he was waist deep, wading his way along. It didn’t occur to him that he was in trouble till he lost the mobility of his legs, so bogged down in the slime. Panic took him as he tried to turn around and make his way back to a shallower area, but as he moved with frantic thoughts, he sunk deeper and deeper. The mud was a heated filth that was swimming with unidentifiable office supplies; it bubbled and groaned in defiance of having him occupied within it. And just like anyone ever in that situation, he began to struggle, franticly, feverishly, with the will to live. And just as fast as he moved he was chin deep. He tilted his head back to keep his mouth free and breathing, but that was in vain, for in a mere matter of moments he could no longer see.



He woke up in the same manner as he went to sleep, in the freezing cold of a suspended night. Drained and exhausted he lifted his head to survey the time, and it was time to go. Nuts to that!' turning over and dozing back off to sleep where he found himself somewhere unknown and derelict.