Waking up, I had to nap away the excitement of a Shoujo's heart. Perhaps the caffeine finally took effect on my retarded body eight hours later, but I couldn't sleep during the night as I waited for my conscious thoughts of you to fade into the unconscious, that I may kiss your hand upon meeting you for the first time.
Did I see you? Of course I didn't. Dreams are rarely dreamt according to our conscious desires. However, a connection was made nonetheless: of the inherent disappointment underlying the thin cloud that is our relationship. Even in my dreams I sigh and choke on the dust that is the despaired remains of a hope unable to thrive in both fantasy and reality. If even the core of my existence understands that you are not a possibility, then how does brute determination resonate? My, I need to stop looking at you.
For breakfast, I made myself a lukewarm cup of chocolate mixed with two teaspoons of oat. Drinking the diluted concoction while forcing spoonfuls of oat down my throat, the irony of this miserable situation aroused the urge to laugh in depravity at adulthood: here I am gulping down a drink I prepared out of necessity when I neither like chocolate nor oats. The thought of unlocking the front door and stepping outside in a rehearsed air of pretension deterred me from going out to enjoy a proper breakfast-- I would much rather starve inside this concrete cocoon if it meant that I wouldn't have to put on an act.
Time's up. The morning's over.
It's time to don on dresses, put on a smile, and resume the role of a functioning being in the mundane order of society.
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