Writing about profound instances in one’s life is perhaps the easiest thing to do. Writing about an everyday, marginally pedestrian occurrence- now that is challenging. Recalling intricate details of entirely irrelevant, even forgotten, information seems near impossible; it is akin to recalling characters in a dream. And then, when you remember it, finding a way to write it so that it accurately reflects its own mundane-ness is a challenge unto itself.
I woke up this morning, the alarm buzzed by my ear. I rolled over, tangled in my blankets, to push the off button. It glowed 9:19. I toyed with the minutes, trying to figure out exactly how long I could stay in bed without risking falling back asleep.
My eyes opened. This time I faced my clock. It glowed 9:24.
My eyes opened. My head was buried under my pillow. I sat up. The clock glowed 9:27. I told myself to wake up, abandon the warmth of the heavy blankets, not to be felt again until night. I stretched my arms over my head, arching my back. Then I stood up and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.
The sun sank low, behind the trees and the snow was drifting endlessly. Beneath my feet I felt a crunch that was the piles of melted weather, laboring under my step. My bag was heavy, pulling me to the left, and my face hurt with cold. I could hear myself breathing loudly as I climbed back to my building, which stood solidly in front of me.