Stretching and Snapping

I wrote this last night, but am just getting around to posting it now.

Today has stretched into an immeasurable span. I have vague recollections of a morning. A morning where I surprised myself by getting up with my alarm's first chime. It consisted of breakfast, a shower, and mediocre books. It had all the makings of a lazy summer day. My body protested at loud noises, the ideas of jumping jacks, and gripping anything too tightly. My brain was not surprised by my body's protestations.

My brain and my body agreed that going to photography class wasn't what either wanted to do. Some other piece of me convinced the rebellious parts to stick it out. I even went so far as to demand that my whole being would have a good time.

This demand was not met; the best I can say is the teacher let us go half an hour early. I spent the time before the arrival of my ride sitting in the grass and drinking a soda. My stomach reminded me why I don't drink carbonated sugar.

My head leaned up against the car's window, my eyes shirking their duty of watching the road for bumps. Perhaps I can blame my delinquent eyes for the drilling in my temple and my throbbing shoulder.

The first order of business upon arriving home was banishing my nice clothes to my bedroom floor in favor of my trusty pajamas. I collected the items I deemed necessary for a sedentary afternoon on the couch and planted my butt firmly in the dent that has formed in the cushions due to many previous days passed in a similar manner.

The time gained a sense of elasticity-bending my memory into blurry images, and snapping back to form crystal-clear pictures of pain.

My bed's welcoming embrace holds me tight, now. It is a place I come to reflect, to be safe, and to put each day behind me.

My hope for the day to come is that time regains its regular, steady march. That my sharpest memories from the day are not ones of pain. And that, when I sit on the brink of blissful unconsciousness, I am not so eager to say farewell to the past twenty-four hours.