It’s one of that kind of mornings. When you wake up with butterflies in your stomach. For no apparent reason. You wake up feeling like someone punched you so hard in your dreams that you can taste the bile from your stomach while it edge plays at the tip of your throat. Your plans for the day derailed. Like You have been pushed out of a moving train, and you have no idea why.
You try to get up and go about as usual. Heart rate elevated. Breathing, heavy. It feels like everything you have worked for and are working on, is utterly pointless and your existence a joke. The echo of the universe laughing only intensifies the bile buildup in your throat. You want to hurl and puke and get it out of your system, like its just the after-effects of a night out but if only it were that simple. But you move on regardless. Questioning every decision you have ever made that has gotten you here. To this morning of death.Or at least you wish you were.
Try to get through the day. Try to turn the day around. Your persistence is an achievement in futility. But the day gets duller, the sky a bit greyer. Unlike a hangover, it doesn’t get better. Somehow you get through it. Your only hope is to sleep it off and that tomorrow is better. You lie in bed playing dance with the elusive sleep. Hoping it’s the antidote. That’s all one can do. Hope. Hope that it gets cured. And all is laid to rest. The dragon is slain and that the sun shines and the clouds clear. And you can lift your head up again without fear.