Screw you, I don't have an apt title for this

I wake up at quarter past 12. I rub my eyes slowly, languidly and then I realize, I feel something winding its way down my eyelids, I rub them harder, shake my head, but the feeling doesn’t stop there. I rake my skin, my bare naked skin with the index finger of my right hand, while my left foot lies slovenly and numbed in the awkward position I was sitting in when I fell asleep. Yes, I can sleep while sitting on the bed which stands a mere foot from the ground.

It’s a hair, a thin tendril like hair, curly at the end, a sign that nothing happened and that everything could still take place. I play with my fingers, admire the digits on the right hand , press hard on the left hand, see the translucent, the sober white spreading across the palm of my left hand, and as I release it, it goes back to what it was before. The skin color, interspersed with darker shades, except it doesn’t feel like before, not now at least. There is still the sensation of something having been there once, being forced upon and fought by with all the integrity of a left hand, whatever little integrity a hand could muster up and bring to the table.

The fan whirrs too loud for my liking, I look up and grimace, but the cacophony seems to persist, with renewed vigor. The grimace was more for the almost perfect circle it always seem to make, the gaps in between the blades hidden from the naked eye, even when it whirrs at the speed next to zero. Nothing’s perfect, not the fan, not the right edge of the lip twitching at the thought of what lies next, and in all probability, nor are you. The fan seems to have got into a nice rhythmic motion now, the thwack-thwack being belted out at appropriate moments, or so, my mind makes me
now believe.

The left foot is cramping now, I move it, I move with it. Rub the toes against each other with what little feeling I have regained. The feeling gets stronger, the cramp grows pronounced in a particular area, and then it all goes numb, just for a minute, just enough for me to look down and stare at the geometric pattern of the bed cover. Do I like what I see, I don’t know, I’m already thinking about the foot again.

Fickle is the mind when it comes to focusing on somebody or something. Moving my head sideways in an attempt to seem dispassionate is something which comes naturally, but it feels different every time I do it. It is not about the different situation, it is different each time every time. Rubbing the barely there stubble on the underside of my chin, I feel the as of now nascent roughness pervade the otherwise softened skin. The stubble is more pronounced as I reach the lighter, sunny-side up face of the chin. That is how it is meant to be, how we are meant to be, isn’t it, more pronounced in one area, still getting there in another, and will never quite reach there in yet another area.