I pry my eyes open. The alarm clock’s red digits bore into my skull: 6:17 AM. Too early. Always too early.

My body aches, a dull reminder of another night spent wrestling with sheets and shadows. Nightmares. Again. All week, without fail.

I drag myself out of bed, legs heavy, mind foggy.

How am I feeling right now?

I shuffle to the window, press my forehead against the cool glass. The street below is coming to life. A red sedan crawls by, then a blue minivan. Their headlights cut through the pre-dawn gloom like searchlights. Searching for what? Normality, maybe.

No birds yet. The trees stand silent, accusatory. Where’s your chorus? I want to shout. But I don’t. My voice feels trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

How am I feeling right now?

The nightmare clings to me like a second skin. I can’t remember the details, just the terror. It’s there in the pit of my stomach, a cold, hard knot. I try to swallow it down with a gulp of stale air.

Another car passes. The driver’s face is a blur, but for a second, I swear I see my own reflection. Tired eyes, drawn face. I blink and it’s gone.

How am I feeling right now?

The coffee maker sputters its last. I pour the liquid into a mug, watching the steam rise and curl. It looks alive. More alive than I feel.

I take a sip. It burns. It always burns. 

How am I feeling right now?

Awake. Alive. And utterly, terrifyingly present.