Alarm Clock

So I haven't really written in a year, after getting into a self-pitying writer's block funk. This is a first foray back.

Her room comes into blur. Blur. She blinks her eyes open. The world is a series of impressions. Cotton sheets against skin. Indescribable smell of home on the pillow. Outside, birds chatter, despite the grey light filtering in through cracks in the curtains. They scrape against a pipe, in the hole they’ve made their home in. She blinks. She tries, in vain, to pull herself out of sleep, tugging at herself like one tugs at a stage curtain.

She peers at the surroundings to her right. The in-focus stack of books; all of which she’s read before. Glasses perched on top, beside the small blue bottle of eyedrops. Past that; a large blur of green, like a patch of grass. A rub of brown holding that green up. Further, a large navy blob. Three vaguely circular circles on the wall. An indiscernible rectangle hangs on the wall. She blinks again. Long silvery tube, bent at the middle, with a thing hanging off the end. More rectangles. More streaks of colour, blending together in a mishmash of mishmash.

Sheets on skin. Warm enveloping. Muscles relaxed. Birds, robins specifically (the damn neighbour and her birdfeeder), twitter. Gentle woosh of a heater. It’s grey outside. Her chest rises and falls. She tries again. Eyes open. Focused books and glasses and eye drop bottle; the lamp beside it and the page-a-day calendar that is too cheery. Some of the green is spikey. Some of the green looks like blurry feathers. The navy blob is actually oval. The somewhat circular circles are painted. The rectangle on the wall is brilliantly coloured. The rectangles to the left are detailed, she knows.

The alarm on her phone, previously unnoticed, blares. A sigh, squirms and movements, she pulls herself up. Glasses on, the world comes into delicious presence. Not impressions, but places. She tugs on the blinds and they open. The world, her room, however detailed, are washed in an ugly, lonely, grey-cloud light. The month-calendar boasts a serious hockey player, the plants (two ferns, an un-flowered orchid, two air plants and a couple of succulents) belong in the Emerald City, the books talk of places she’d rather be, the desk calls to her, the chair wants her, the floor lamp begs to be turned on. The laptop asks to be opened. She runs a hand through her hair.

She gets up. Reaches under her glasses to rub at her eyes. The cold goosebumps her skin. She strips off her pajamas. She puts on underwear, tight slacks, and socks. She puts on deodorant. Washes her face. She absently buttons up a shirt, pulls on a sweater. She brushes her hair. She forgoes makeup. She grabs her laptop, tucks it into its sleeve, tucks the sleeve into a suitcase, grabs her headphones, her phone.

In the doorway, she goes through the motions of a worsted wool coat and boots.

She steps out. The day is grey and chilly. The robins chirp.

Author's Note

Please be kind! This is very short and a first try back into the world of writing that consumed me a year ago! I know it isn't great! Please be patient with me!