Just as I wake up, it’s almost fully faded. The sting still grips, warming the back of my neck. The clarity hits the brick wall in the opposite window from my feet. And then it’s here, again. This ravaged stretch weighting inside my rib cage.

My left ear ringing loudly. The sound of the unavoidable. What can’t change. The sharp tip swinging right above my head, with its thin monotone whistle.

As I try to stand up, my bruised back fixes me supine again with a myriad of needles waving through my nerves, up to my fatigued brain. How can I be so tired? The sun paints the bricks in bright orange. So bright. A very well-built day. The epitome of a day. I feel like I’ve slept for at least 10 hours. How can I be so tired?

I must be old. This is being old. This perpetual sinking into a bottomless ocean. Aren’t all oceans practically bottomless? Is this getting old? It can’t be. But my whole body hurts as if I was born in year one.

After giving up on sitting straight, I roll on my right side. A swift movement that goes away with the hope of lessening the timespan of the pain crank that grabs me by the neck, nails deep in the guts, abdomen and jaw fully clenched.

I can see the wall now. The once impeccable white wall has now the reluctant greasy stains of what were hands or massive paws.

An old t-shirt covering the picture over the nightstand. I stretch my left arm and try to remove it. I want to see, again. I stand by the impassive need of remembering that framed, distant flirting with a fragile joy. But my long and ragged nails can barely touch the fabric, and the effort alone leaves me feeling even more exhausted.

Falling now, I mean completely letting go, wouldn’t hurt that much more. I roll a little bit more on my right shoulder and let my body drop on the dirty hardwood floor, face first. The high ringing is now a low throbbing, originating from my swollen forehead.

I push both my hands just enough to lift my face from the ground and check and confirm that, to my surprise, there’s not a single drop of fresh blood in the hair, dust and nail-covered fake hardwood floor. I bleed easily. Lately. I can bleed just by thinking about it. You could say I’m in a constant state of bleeding. But no blood this time. I think that’s funny, somehow.

I stretch both of my arms above my head and pull my entire body, squeezing it between the bed and the old wooden nightstand. The half-loose splinters spiking off it scratching my left arm and the left flank of my body. The floor’s grit eating down the epidermis of my chest like thick sandpaper as I crawl towards the closed door of the room.

I try to climb it on the lock’s side, using all the strength left in my shoulders and my peeled forearms. I fall. I try again. I fall. I try again, I hang for enough time on my weakened hands to throw one of them to grab the door knob. I then curl one leg enough to place the sole of my foot on the floor. I spring that flaky leg to give room for my other foot to help support the rest of my trembling body. I’m crouching as if I were about to shit right here, right now, on the floor of my room.

With almost the rest of my energy, my legs straight me up entirely. The door knob is cold, the air around my head feels cold as well.

I turn the knob and pull the door against me, with the maddening cadence of a sand watch. The door is fully open. The light is swallowing any discernible form in my living room, as I watch it from my bedroom’s door. A blank, bright void.

By now, it has completely faded away. The skin behind my neck cools. I’m still shaking. My hands let go of the door. It’s a new day. It is the time for coping. Let’s cope, as we have no choice. Good morning.