Waiting for the Sun

She saw me sprawled across the floor, low to the ground but not quite there, as if to avoid the fog like fumes that sprayed themselves softly around the room, emmanating from various piles of drunken debris, exhaled from beer bottle pixies - balancing on glass rims, smoking joss sticks. I don't know what she expected to achieve by stirring me (she would've been better off stirring me tea) - what she got was protestation aimed at my absent mother accompanied by flailing, mock-tranquilised arms flicking her from the perch she'd created on the bed.

I feel bottles topple from my eyelids as I open them, cracking into the base of my skull synchronically with January's inifintely glistening sun, scattered on and projected from fallen snowflakes, reflected around the cold, vibrant air like the chainmail on piled bodies of dead knights, defeated in their battle against the rotation of any and all circles by the softly spoken rays of dawn.

I, on the other hand, actually wake up to solidified musk, seeping out of every biological nook, trickles-come-pathways down my face, the amber trails sloppily flake off my eye-bags with the aid of my finger nails and the random wrinkling of facial parts. My eyes are still closed, or have reclosed, don't know which, slightly unnerving, but eyes fastened tight I regale her with my dream - my hand all the while tinkering with her beautifully jutted hip.

I informed her that if you spend your whole life trying to stand perfectly vertical on the side of a steep hill, facing it's peak, when it comes to turning round and going home, you won't be able to - the wind will've changed and your ankles will have stayed like that, toes forever directing you to the top. Now, you'll never be able to turn around you see...

At this point I get nervous, I fear my audience's reception, I fear they'll think me mad.

Then I remember who I'm speaking to.

Right, these people facing up the hill then, they can't turn around you see, their stiff legs and angled ankles would cause them to fall on their faces. I was at the front of the mass of people congregated, my back to them.

Then my body duplicated itself, the doppleganger felt like a strawberry and was most certainly red. Strawberry Bob and I talked the skies colour away and decided to form a plan. But we came up with two.

A) We could fall forward and risk inability to roll over on our fronts, faces forever in the dirt.

or

B) We could fall backwards and hope for the best.

Of course, Strawberry Bob offered to go first, and of course, I let him.
"At least one of us will get out." his seeded half smile almost let the "one" go unnoticed by me. You wouldn't know Strawberry Bob's mind was full of fear's wasteland, you wouldn't know it unless you caught the single eye twitch as he pushed his weight onto the back of his ankle and toppled backwards - again and again. I caught the apologetic look of failure in his eye, but I couldn't catch him.

So I toppled forwards immediately, retaliating against the fates.

Grit tugged the skin from my forehead, canvassing the paving in blood as I rolled onto my side, leaving dangled forehead flesh as decoration stuck between the small gaps in the pavement. Through the sweat and gore heartily lashed over my vision, I see the people of the town in feverent excitement and I feel the ground quake. As I tilt my head upwards I see the sun and I can sense the townspeople's eyes already occupying it's adoring mass, beckoning the believers to it.

It's presence was building, growing, becoming more than the sum of it's residents, becoming a birth. That's when you opened my eyes. Now, come envelope me, just make sure we don't need to leave the bed.