Waking

Parting from consciousness is always difficult for me. I hate the thought of actually going to sleep, even when I am so sleep deprived that hallucinations seem imminent. But once I am asleep, there are the dreams. Like Rashid's connection to the Ocean of Stories, at times, my Ocean of Dreams dries up, or rather my memory of that ocean abandons me. But for weeks, I will dream incessantly. Premonitions, adventures, psychological mazes....The worlds are truly fantastic. I feel submerged. Rejoining "reality" then is just as hard. I do not spring out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. This is a difficult maneuver....Perhaps even a P2C2E, but I will attempt the impossible regardless.

As the last threads of my latest dream unwind, letting me slip through the web like water through a sieve, I become vividly aware of the incessant replaying of a song on my cell phone. "Bad Day". As a side note, it may seem weird for me to choose a song with such an ominous title to greet the day with, but believe me, I have reasons. I find that everyone grows to hate whatever it is that is waking them up, even on a subconscious level. The sound then triggers a reflex that is less than comforting, and brings to mind all those mornings where one awakens terrified because he thinks he's late already. Secondly, I have some kind of superstitious attachment to the song, thinking that it will almost ward off that which it is. After all, it is OPPOSITES that attract. Thirdly, I found waking up to James Brown screaming "I feel good" was simply altogether too disturbing. Anyway, I digress.

After hitting the snooze button on my cell phone innumerable times, I slowly open my eyes. My hands are wound around my sheets....a sunrise yellow with intricate designs that I sometimes trace, semi-consciously with one finger in an attempt to delay the day. Eventually, I take a look around, making a sort of unconscious, ritualistic inventory of the room. Painting of abstract bluebird on a golden expanse that was completed senior year of high school. Imaginary city in graphite--freshman year of college. The open closet from which neglected clothing spills out of like a tiny stream. Mirror with a smile. Mounds of artwork stacked semi-neatly in the corner. More drawings on the walls, fragments of faces illumined by a phantom light. They greet me. I am surrounded by stacks of books and cds, potential stories, and I wake to a gallery of artwork, most of which I will admit is my own. (Time and money are required to be an avid collector)

Finally, I am just awake enough to think about getting up. Just awake enough to think about the day. And, swinging my feet out of bed to touch the floor, I rejoin "reality". The key to my being conscious rather than comatose, I find, is the greeting of these familiars....something like turning tumblers in a lock. Finally they fall into place. The door opens. But then again.... Transcending worlds is never easy.