A December 15th

     December 15th. Damned in my own bed, I lay awake. 

     2:00 am, the penetrating clicking sounds fill my ears. With each tik, I feel my brain pulsing and my heartbeat quickening amongst the seconds passing by that I stare at the ceiling, I cannot see. My hands laid flat on my hips, and slowly, I began playing with the fabric of my shorts. The stitching on the sides are rough but they grasped on tightly to the cotton. 

     3:00 am, the light from my phone keeps glistening through my eyes as if daylight had come. Maybe I’m not the only one awake now. Maybe, I’m not the only one who has shut their eyes for the past five hours and managed to have drawn away from ever sleeping again. An eternal Hell arises for me, my skin is burnt on fire underneath my grey silk comforter, sweat drips down from my forehead, and my lower back and thighs tingle and soak in their own puddles as well. 

     4:00 am,you can hear the birds singing in the trees. It’s winter here, but somehow the birds never left their homes. They never migrated to where the warmth of the sun can hit their feathers and they can cradle their youth in their warm presence. 

     5:00 am, the sun bloomed on the horizon, golden petals stretched outwards into the rich gradient of pink and orange clouds as they evaporated and disappeared deep beyond that same horizon line. Now, I am cold. Stretching out, I grabbed the comforter I had kicked off my body and hour and a half ago. My apartment filled with a harsh extinguished breeze of cold air, and I really missed that warm feeling I had before. Goosebumps cradled my body and a shiver crept up my spine. A gust of wind pecked my cheek and I knew, and almost prayed and begged I would die of frostbite. 

     6:00 am, I thought it would be a normal time to wake up. Seeing how I was already awake, I found no point in thrilling myself with the excitement of being surprised and utterly frightening myself with my usual dose of alarms. So I wiggled my way out from under my covers and landed on the cold, non-rugged apartment floor. I didn’t move. I was sad and tired in that moment that my body remains rigid and as I continued to lay flat on my right arm. I could feel the intense numbing and needling imaginatively puncture my skin. 

     6:10 am, I cried a few drops of tears and watched them drip one by one onto the floor. Oh One of them slid straight from my eye, but the others had to cross paths with my nose. They were calm, too calm for me to complain. 

     6:20 am, I sat up. My eyes stared out the window that rested above my bed. My cheeks were sparkling with glittery tears that I had not wiped off yet. I felt dead, a feeling I’ve yet to know since my cat died that previous month. 

     6:40 am, my mouth began quivering. People have probably eaten breakfast and have scattered off to work by now. But I can’t lift my arms up. Once I lean my head back, I won’t have enough strength to lift it back up. I’ve reached the depths of despair, I’ve reached my personal breaking point. Nothing has happened, no change has occurred. I just woke up on this very usual, standard morning, while previously going to bed last night expecting a normal day, and here I am. I can’t move, my eyes are blurred with salty water and my head is crashing into its own unusual sharp pain. 

     7:00 am, I cried as though my brain was being shattered into a million glass shards from the inside. A pain of colossal and towering emotion flowed through and out of every one of my pores. From my mouth came a cry so raw that even the eyes of the non-existent strangers around me were suddenly wet with tears. I grabbed onto my knees so that my violent shaking would not cause myself to fall, and from my eyes came a thicker flow of tears than I had cried before. There was enough pain to break me, enough pain to change me beyond recognition, beyond anything I could convert myself back to. 

      December 16. I got up today. I poured myself a day old glass of bitter black coffee not filtered from its coffee grounds, but I didn’t care. At least I was walking around. I didn’t rest my eyes and fall asleep last night until 11:00 pm. By that time, I had crawled back up under my covers again. Still frozen and covered in solid goosebumps I shivered for a few minutes before slowly my brain calmed itself from the previous daytime hours. 

     Getting dressed was hard. The bitter coldness that filled my room prevented me from changing out of my sweatpants. My hair was frizzy and I was not fully awake by the time I locked my door and started towards the bookstore. I could hear it calling towards me, telling me to go in and get a hot, brewed coffee.

     The snow was glistening on the once laid grass, and the sun was brightly lit and slowly melting each individual snowflake one by one. 

     The door handle was cold, and filled with its own grief. I stepped in and I could taste the fresh, new pages of novels as they were stacked on the shelves. They pulled me in their direction. Calling out to me, whispering in my ear to caress their book spines and fan their pages out. 

     Half an hour into my excursion I came across and aisle, there was no indication of what  was there, for there was no sign. As I took a step deeper into the long treacherous aisle, my heart pounded and I could feel my happiness slowly leaving. 

     I turned around to leave; before I came into eye contact with a sad book. Looks as though it had never been caressed or touched. It’s pages weren’t bent, it’s spine hadn’t been cracked. All alone on the shelf was a book, “The Antidote.” The back read, “ a book for people who need help finding a purpose in life to help navigate them away from depression.” I instantaneously felt my body shiver as my eyes watered. I slipped away into the corner of the aisle, abandoned of people with a small lonely stool where I sat and ready the first few words. 

     Tomorrow is going to be a good day.