Mornings Are For Mourning–Part I

You’d think mornings are hard enough as is. As soon as you half-open your eyes, you instantly feel the hospitality radiate from your luxurious surroundings. Until you are forced to crawl out of the warmth of layers and layers of duvets, comforters, throws, shams and blankets–cashmere, silk, wool, shearling–leaving the safety of the arms that enveloped you to be hit with a cold blast of air… and then real life starts.

Your stomach grumbles–you’re starving. Your closet is in desperate need of organisation–you need to find something to wear. Your mane’s a wild nest and you need to tame it before you head out the door in–crap!–five minutes! Five minutes to get ready. As you process this, two minutes pass by. Your feet, although cuddled by soft slippers, are freezing. And you still need to get ready, because life goes on. It doesn’t stop because you dozed off for a few minutes–the most heavenly minutes of your life.

You’d think that the rest of your day must be better, because nothing could be worse that the first few minutes of stepping into reality. Until you face an even ruder awakening.

This morning, after I finally got myself together (so what if I’d be ten minutes late for school?), I heard laughter coming from our living room. My mum’s laugh. What? It couldn’t be. Her mornings always started with a cup of extra strong coffee and shuffling through papers, stressfully preparing for her morning talk show, The Daily Grind–certainly not listening to the birds sing and stopping to smell the flowers.

If it wasn’t for my curiosity, I would have probably taken ten more minutes to get ready. Hey, knowledge is power (or so they say, and by they I mean Kristen).

I shuffled down the stairs, my curiosity growing with each step. No amounts of concealer to cover up my dark circles (thanks, Tumblr), spandex to hide my bumps, bronzer to re-sculpt my face, or highlighter to beautify my skin could have prepared me to face this awakening. The kind of awakening that sends you off to Paris for the summer, doesn’t call, doesn’t text and sends you an expensive gift for Christmas without a card: the kind that leaves and doesn’t come back to check in on you.

I stiffened in a position colder than the cyclone that blasted me earlier that morning as I looked through the window to that soulless creature’s soul–his icy eyes.





6 thoughts on “Mornings Are For Mourning–Part I

  1. Dylan,
    Woah, this post was really relatable, morning isn’t fun for me either!
    Also, what a cliffhanger- can’t wait to see what goes on between the Marvils.

    xx, Apple

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