… or at least that’s what I would have done had I made the effort.
The day started innocently enough, the sun peeking in through the window and shining in my eyes. “Usually you’re up by now,” the Day said.
“Sod off. I punched out of that world of alarm clocks and books on tape and other nefarious devices designed to enslave humankind. I’m a free agent now.”
The Day laughed nervously. It had only been on the job a little while itself, and was very much tied to a schedule. This wasn’t how previous days had said I’d act. “But,” and here a sly grin stole across the day’s face, “what about the voices?”
They’re not really voices per se, of course. There’s no little Jimminy Cricket up in my head saying, “Oooh! Hop to it, Chumley! Today’s going to be a cracking fine day!” There’s nothing like that. It’s just that, lying in bed in the morning, most days I start getting excited about all the things I’m going to be doing. I get ideas starting to fizz away up there, things to write, insights on that annoying bug in Jer’s Novel Writer, that kind off stuff. Most mornings I feel like a kid who’s been promised an outing to the zoo. I get up because I want to get up.
Most mornings. This morning things inside my cranium were still and quiet. Not the quiet before the storm quiet, not the “Quiet… too quiet” quiet, not even the sigh of the wind over the dunes quiet. With nothing going on up there, I rolled over, and left the day uncertain and disoriented.
Eventually, of course, biology demanded that I rise and drink tea. While the tea brewed I stood scratching myself. And that set the tone for the rest of the day. By the end, the Day crept away, weeping and broken.
I think I’ll go to bed early.