The wake up call

No more hitting the snooze button on my life, this seems to be the new resolution. You let yourself slide a little and all the sudden your not even on the playing field. "Batter up" they yell as I try desperately to find a helmet. The slow trek to the chalk outlined box. I take a few practice swings, inhale and exhale a couple deep breaths, and pantomime some gestures that give me guidance. Each step towards the destination increases the magnitude of the world I carry on my shoulders. One foot digs in before the other drags behind to find the dirt. I twist my foot trying to find further contact with the earth. The bat lifts to my shoulder as if a result of my body disobeying my will. The pitcher takes his stances, sure to throw me a curve if for no other reason than to spite me. The wind up...Silence. The air becomes crisper as my senses heighten. Everything becomes more distinctive except the sound, it muffles into a blur canceling itself out. But I can taste the October air, see the molecules that fill the area in front of me, feel the energy of the crowd combining to give me superhuman strength, and smell the defeat.

I become stuck in a timeloop of this moment, this energy surrounds me constantly, but yet I never get a chance to swing. But the silence, it's deafening. I live knowing only the silence. I'm trapped in the moment in time before something happens. I feel as though I am ready by stepping into the batters box, but the pitcher won't release. Release! I don't care if I strike out or hit a home run, I just want to rotate my body around and not just beat the bottom of my shoes with a bat. I'm not sure if the pitcher is overly-confident or is scared to death of me hitting it out of the park.

But what can I do? Taunt the pitcher, I doubt that will work. Instead I remain frozen in time. Not moving forward or backward. I'm standing still. Not knowing if I secretly wish to strike out.

The alarm won't stop buzzing. The ringing might be worse than the silence. I'm trying to get up but the air in the room is too cold. Only pneumonia awaits me outside the covers. But in the comfort of the sheets lays immobility. Wasting away at the hands of a duvet. Goose feathers create a chicken. Too afraid to face to world beyond the borders of the land ruled by Kings and Queens.

But no matter how long I bury my head under the fortress courteously of bed, bath, and beyond; the alarm keeps getting louder. Piercing my ears with the cellphone version of "Daydream Believer." But the six o'clock alarm does ring, so I must rise and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. So I face the world, on leg out of the covers at a time.