Stale and stagnant. The glass of water sitting on the nightstand, half full, half empty, watching the blinds while the sun rises behind. It had been a long night of tossing and turning. Dreams on the brink of nightmares. I can't sleep enough. I sleep too much.
I cried on the sidewalk twice last week. Both under the cover of night, one in the grip of sheer joy and one in the throws of sheer frustration. Frozen, chapped fingers against my phone up to my ear. I paced. I sat down on the bus stop bench. And then I went on with my evening.
This is everything I want(ed). This is nothing I want(ed). Past Present Future. Tense.
Yet. The glass still sits stale and stagnant. Watching only the blinds.
I'm standing on the edge. I'm standing in the middle of a field. I open my eyes without ever knowing which to expect.
Fill the glass, top it off, drink it down. Or pick it up and dump the water on the hardwood floor next to the nightstand. Either way, open the damn blinds and watch the sunrise.
