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the constant urge to start a new book i'll never finish is so strong :)))
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Sometimes, when I think about it, I realize I can't remember the last time I woke up from sleep and felt truly rested.
I can't recall the last time I took a nap, whether thirty minutes long or three hours, and woke up feeling as though I could run a marathon with blanket creases all over my arms. I have had long, deep sleeps recently, though not as many as I have had short and spotty, but from them all I wake up feeling just as exhausted as I felt before going to bed.
This time, however, as I watch colors and shapes form behind my still closed eyes, there is a new energy in my muscles that I have not felt in long.
It is odd, though. I have a hard time moving, and a part of me still feels weak. There is that natural tired that takes a couple minutes to wear off after sleep too.
I start moving my toes and fingers first, grimacing internally at how stuff they feel. I roll my ankles and wrists. Then I bend my limbs at their joints, hearing both knees crack. The noise, strangely enough, reminds me of the sound of Draco slamming an old book down in the table in the Room of Requirements. My mouth feels too dry to move, but it if could it would quirk into a smirk at the wonder if with each movement my knees billow dust just like those books.
Slowly, I lift my arms over the covers. The air is distinctly cooler out there, but I ignore the goosebumps that spread over my skin. Blindly, I wiggle my fingers in the air before letting my hands fell to my side.
It takes what I imagine to be ten minutes, but may have only been two in the never ending silence of wherever I was, to open my eyes.
The ceiling stared back at me. I trace the ornate framing, even the cracks in its old wood composition.
My neck seems to creak when I turn it so I can look at the door. It is ajar.
It feels as though everything in my body is rippling when I force myself to sit up. It takes ages, but it makes my head rush with something like adrenaline. My bare feet feel a little numb when they press against the floor. I practice touching my toes to them, only standing up when the delusion part of my mind is convinced the floor will be strong enough to hold up my dizzy body.
I stumble through the halls for a few minutes. It is eerily quiet, as though my home has been deserted. Nobody occupies my mother's room, nor Blaise's, and nor my aunt's.
But when I get downstairs and slowly make my way to the parlor room, there sits my mother.
Despite the sun's rays casting through the window and over her face, she seems to be asleep. I lean against the door frame for a little support while I watch her. My throat suddenly feels dry from however long I haven't spoken. I can't seem to manage to choke enough dust out to utter a word.
