Prose II :: The Waking

I wake up and my head feels weird. My mind is numb and sharp and cold at the same time. Like a thin plastic bag, filled with ice cubes, razorblades and painkillers. Occasionally the ice cubes are made out of frozen liqueur. To find out who I am I reluctantly thrust my naked hand into this bag , nonchalantly grab a fistful of its contents and shove it into my mouth, chewing listlessly and heavy headed.

The memories trickle in. The self affirms itself. Slowly the blank slate I was in the haze of my waking is replaced by an actual person. I find it a funny process. It's like watching countless little wheels of fortune come to a halt one by one. Each one adding a little fact, a little facet to who I am. When I was waking up all dazed and confused, I could have been anybody, but eventually, perhaps unfortunately, I again wound up just being me.

Here I am. The coming day and the coming night will add another few wheels to me and if I party hard enough could perhaps even remove some of them.

Tomorrow, though still myself, I might wake a better man.

~ RhymeBound