A Summer near Westcity -- 7

Published on Jul 12, 2019

Waking up while the clock still reads 11, even 11:50, feels a world apart from getting out of bed on the other side of noon. It makes it easier to admit to people that you slept in, but in a non demoralizing way. Like I can mention that I nearly slept in until noon without clarifying exactly how close to noon I had woken up.

It's true that waking up on the other side of noon brings shame, but the shame, like the bad smell in a room you live in long enough, I've acclimated to. I can't notice it anymore even if I try really hard. But a negative aspect of waking up late that never loses it's punch is the sense of loss. Of waste. No matter how many days I sleep-in, the gut wrenching, empty-chested feeling of having squandered the morning doesn't get softer. It continues to greet me upon waking with a haymaker to the face. It makes me want to grab onto something in the air and grip it to death. But there's nothing in the air that I can grab. No matter how much I grip for something, it's just air. It eludes my palms and fingers. And once I realize I can't choke something to death in the air, an urge to do unproductive things, to fill my empty chest as fast as I can taunts me. 

A person who wakes up past noon has less time in the day to do what they must, yet instead of being goaded into doing, they feel compelled to do the opposite. Run.