The morning aura peeled apart my eyelids as though electricity ran through my bones. I immediately recall the remanence of a dream I was just having, yet could not track back to anything about it. I lay awake attempting to dig it back up for a few minutes before giving up on it forever and getting out of bed, carrying the slight twitch of disappointment with myself. While walking to my window I struggle past a mirror and briefly scan myself for persistent insecurities, like a virus scanner, I re-center myself for a socially accepted standard of self-loathing before I even begin to think about interacting with anyone.
I place an excessive amount of anticipation on the mystery condition of the weather outside before I pull the wrapping paper off the world by prying apart my curtains. I shook hands with myself and made a subconscious agreement that if it looks cold and wet then I will have an undeniably terrible day. To my disappointment, it was mild and average. From my window, I have an embarrassing view of a park where children usually go and laugh loudly. I noticed this morning that there was a boy on his own with a toy machine gun, shooting and supposedly killing invisible things. I watched him for a moment and came to the assumption that in his fantasy, he was not under any sort of struggle or war-based peril but rather simply, shooting things which appeared to cause no imaginary threat to himself, probably unarmed innocents and civilians or something.
I smiled to myself smugly as a form of congratulatory praise for being so clever and witty with my analysis of this little boy. This moment of self-aggrandizing glory was quickly thwarted by a realization that I am the type of person who feels better about thyself when I silently make fun of children. I walked past the mirror again on my way to my kitchen, looking at myself briefly in the eyes while sarcastically thinking "Nice one".
The kitchen held a static hum omitting from the homely appliances, all of which were hooked up to the walls like a hospital ward for the terminally ill. I felt sorry for them but, then felt sorry for myself, for feeling sorry for them. The room itself echoed with my footsteps as I dragged myself over to the fridge. My hands felt heavy and clumsy as though the familiar and loyal childhood hands that once helped me to eat ice cream and climb trees had died, I now just have to put up with dragging their bodies around with me on the end of my arms. There was nothing in the fridge that I felt the desire to place into my mouth, I became briefly annoyed at myself from the past and his inability to comprehend what future me would like to eat.
The kitchen had exhausted it's purpose to me now. If I don't want to eat anything, why am I still in this room. I lingered around for a while like a stock-checker, opening and re-opening various draws and cupboards. As I proceeded to do this I realized how preoccupied with aesthetic impressions I am.
I had no personal desire to appear busy with purpose since, I already knew I had none. I was more concerned with the slight chance that someone may see me doing nothing and forge an opinion that, as a generalization, I do nothing. They would be mainly right but, I don't have the time to confront every pair of wondering eyes with a discussion on philosophy and the relative, futile illusion of what actually constitutes as "busy". I often catch myself talking to myself then I talk to myself about how I probably shouldn't talk to myself, the kitchen cabinets had seen enough pantomime action for one day. I decided to move on and try to appear busy and normal somewhere else.
