Aubade
It’s strange to me that waking up is always like this, a charged space between my dreamlife and that other person I’m not-quite-yet-become. It is like recovering from a sickness to discover that you weren’t always a fevered invalid; it is a tiny, daily (re) enactment of that horrible, wonderful feeling that you get when you think back five or ten years to an alien being that strode about in your body, that wore your clothes and thought your thoughts. You and he are not the same: your dreams do not belong to this person mechanically taking a shower, not exactly.
Every morning, without fail, the words on all of the spines on all of the books in the house shout a poem at me in a beautiful language I am never going to be able to speak.
It’s all over by eight.
Posted by B T at July 16, 2001 07:42 AM