I wake to the familiar droning of my computer fan in the far corner of my dark bedroom. The soft sound falling onto my ears feels like the comforting patter of rain. I open my eyes to the same blank ceiling as every other morning, with a small unlit light bulb hanging from the centre; my room is only lit by the faint light of dusk filtered through the blinds of my window. The cold autumn breeze flows through with the light, and I feel as if I freeze from skin to bone. I welcome the sweet embrace of frost; it fits in well with the state of my mind. I kick the grey blanket off my legs and swing them over the side of my small bed frame, and shiver as my bare feet touch the cold wooden floor. It almost feels like a ritual by now, but I can't really call it that because it's just me getting out of bed. I let out a sigh.
Always over-analysing. I think to myself. It really isn't necessary, but maybe the whole over-analysing is a ritual in itself. I let out another sigh.
I woke up in a dream today, to the cold of the static, and put my cold feet on the floor. The same song lyrics play in my head again as I stand up and stretch my arms out in front of me; my arms straight and my fingers locked together ahead of me, bent dangerously far in the wrong direction. I walk over to the wooden dresser standing in the corner of the room closest to the only window and look through what's left of my clean shirts; all the others make up a material mound on the floor next to the dresser. Everything inside is made up of greys, darker greys, and blacks, but one shirt in particular catches my eye. Its almost glossy white sleeve calls to me, and when I take the shirt off its hanger, I'm met with somewhat of a surprise: the shining white print contrasting with a soft black logo and design on it, as well as the rest of the shirt itself feeling like a woollen sweater. Minutes to Midnight. A wry smile crawls onto my face as I look at the album logo printed onto the thick cotton in my hands. More song lyrics rush into my head, but this time specific to the design I see in front of me. I slip the shirt over my head and struggle to get my arms through the sleeves; it's a little small now, but I'll manage.
I walk back to the foot of my bed and pick up the grey tracksuit pants haphazardly flung over the wooden frame from last night and step into them, one leg at a time, as most people do. I think? Is it weird to do one leg at a time or do other people put both legs in at once? My mind suddenly swarms with unnecessary anxieties and I stop for a moment just to process the abundance of thoughts in my head. I take a deep breath to try and clear my mind, but as expected it doesn't work, so I move on with my daily routine and try my best to block out the distorted whimsy floating around the blank spaces of my mind. I step out of my room and into my house's single short hallway; the walls around me plastered with a dull beige that transitions into a bright baby blue as I step into my bathroom. I plant my hands on opposite sides of the ceramic sink in front of me and stare into the mirror cabinet mounted on the tile wall at my head height. I stare straight ahead into my own dark, sunken eyes and once again try to clear my head. My thoughts only race faster than they already have been. I shift my direct vision from the brown pits below my brow down the bridge of my slim nose, and trace an imaginary line down to the corners of my lips, then slowly over to my straight jaw, up to protruding cheekbones over hollow cheeks, then back to my empty eyes. Is this really who I am? I gingerly brush a finger over my seemingly apparent jawline. Why can't I recognise my face? I screw my eyes shut and put a clenched fist on the mirror. I take a deep breath in through my nose. Four. I hold my breath. Seven. I exhale loudly through my mouth. Eight. I repeat this four times, and the dark maelstrom gathering on the forefront of my mind begins to disperse. I open my eyes, rest my now open hand on the side of the mirror, and slowly swing the cabinet open. Not slowly enough apparently, as the cream coloured ceramic mug holding my toothbrush and toothpaste topples to the floor and shatters on the fading colour of the tiles. I let out another of my deep sighs and pick up the mug's contents and place them on the shelf inside the mirror cabinet. I should be more careful with the next one. I crouch down, narrowly missing the sink with my forehead, and sweep the remains of my mug into a small pile. It's sad, really, to see something that was once whole in an irreparable state of ruin. I stare at the small ceramic hill for a moment, and get lost in my mind. Same. I let out a little smirk.
