Figment of Sleep

I roll over the blanket towards the wall faster than I roll my eyes gazing at the roof, recalling how my sixth-grade geometry teacher used the corners of the roof to explain coordinates. If only she also taught how to coordinate my life under this roof. I don’t understand sleeping eye masks. Wearing fabric around your eyes so you could force your eyes into darkness for the matter of a few hours. Ask the blind if they ever wore a lacy web of cloth around their eyes. Ask the dead if they need one.

My knees scream of pain, they want a spring bath but dear lord, I curse myself for not having used the gifted spa coupons before they expired. Will the world use my resources better before I die or will it whine over not having done so, like I did for the free coupons? Am I free though? I realize I’ve now grown older and that I’ll be having the same thought again after years, then yet again after some more years and it’ll go on and on until someday when I’ll have no matter in me to calculate my mortal years. By now, I wonder what time it is. Is it too late to sleep that I’ll have to struggle to wake up as an android and function the industrial towers they call workplace, with other androids, some inferior, some finer?

I now plan my next day, how I’ll procrastinate the irksome resonance of the alarm, fold my sheets and blanket and place the pillow parallel to the headboard of the bed to pretend I’m a noblewoman. Now, a noblewoman demands a wholesome breakfast but I switch back to reality and pour the milk in a glass and dip some cookies in it. Thinking further about the day at the workplace gets me all lazy, who am I, even the rooster isn’t ready to make the wakeup call yet. I skip those parts, I only plan further as to how I’ll plan the day after.

The next morning, I discover sleep lines on my cheeks while looking at the mirror. I also discover a very uninvited personal remark coming from the back of my mind, of how I’m aging and should develop a better skincare routine. “You don’t have a skin care routine”, apparently the voice from the back of my mind is my mother’s. But who even cares about the tissues that decide how I appear and if it matters, why do I have brown eyes when I wanted olive green ones. And yes, I like olives, usually prefer extras on my pizza. I design my pizza but who designs me?