I am waking up--too early.
Alarms inside and outside my head blare--too loud.
Time to get up, I tell myself.
Instead, I roll over and fade back into that place between waking and sleeping.
You'll be late, I chide, You won't have time to pack lunch, and you know you can't afford to eat out.
That does it.
I would read a poem. I would read an essay. I would watch a documentary. I would look at a picture.
It had always been conveyed to me that art, writing, film, performing, that all were forms of self expression.
Yet no matter how hard I tried, I could not replicate the satisfaction within my own work, within my own portrayal of myself, my emotion.
