typical

Once again, I had such high, high hopes for the day. Last night, after a glance at my calendar, I curled up and set my alarm for 20 minutes later than usual.  

That never happens. 

-

That was last week. I haven't even had time to finish a post! No events scheduled for three days lead to down to staff and about to be down three. That means my brain is a skip's scramble. My body is running on empty. Caffeine isn't enough. I wonder if this is how some people start doing drugs...like Liv Tyler's character in Empire Records. 

Calm. Deep breaths. I'll be home three and a half hours. I won't have a 12 or 14 hour day today. It'll only be ten. 

My stomach is screaming at me. This is the only time I've slowed down enough to be able to hear it for days. In ten minutes, when I have to start running around again, it'll be silent again. Well, not silent, just unheard. 

Emails are going ignored. I'm not ignoring them, I just haven't been in my office long enough to have an answer. I wish I could just say that, but I can't. I can't promise I'll have the information tomorrow, or Friday, or even by Monday. 

My desk is, once again, a hot mess. Not that I get much time to sit there to be bothered by it. 

I can't even be coherent anymore. I'm easily distracted as it is, but I would always be able to hop back into my sentence right where I left off. Now, I just stare. Stare and forget I was even speaking in the first place. 

I've been blonde for a year now. I think. My timeline has been muddled lately, too. This weekend, with this mess, I dyed my hair the darkest red. I chopped it off. Four inches: gone. I gave myself bangs. I switched from brown to black eyeliner. None of these things I noticed until this moment. This one moment of calm. None of these things will I remember once I grab my keys and run out the door again. 

Five minutes. 

My eyes are drooping. My skin is pale. My skin is always pale, but blush and a little bronzer used to bring me to life, now they make me look like I'm on display at the mortuary. 

Three minutes. 

If I just had time for a nap. Just one nap, short and sweet, I'd be good to go. Maybet circles would lighten. 

Two minutes. 

My feet barely had time to relax. Time to shove them back into my heels. Where are my keys? Oh, under that stack of paper. 

One minute. 

Collapse.  

death.

Today is the day that I die. I knew it was coming...I've felt it for some time now. My head is spinning, my eyes are blurred, my breath is trying, and my heart is screaming. 

Allergy season is upon us. 

Every year, it builds up. Every year, each morning gets worse. Each morning, the number of sneezes increases. As that number increases, so does the time my eyes spend in waterfall mode. All of my energy is depleted to such an extent, even the smell of my coffee automatically brewing as trouble coaxing me from the embrace of my satin comforter. Slowly, even doubling up on Claritin has no power of the symptoms. 

I must face the day (the meetings, the pharmacy trips, and the doctor visits) without the comfort of makeup. The constant nose blowing and streaming tears get rid of that in 20 minutes, anyway.  It's not giving up, it's acceptance. Anyway, I'd rather not have any makeup on than dreadful mascara tears. 

I've mastered the art of dying over the years. I've grown accustomed to it. While  people around me show concern for my gradual decreased spirit, I know better. I know I will die. 

I will die, and then, as if the past few weeks were nothing but a dream, I will be reborn. I will awake to various cartoon voices scolding me and coffee dripping. I will be sneeze free and my vision will only be hindered by close objects and alcohol. My mind will be sturdy, my breath will be unhindered, and my heart beat clear and equal. 

I have known suffering equal to passing through Shelob's lair and the desert between Tashbaan and Archenland in the year 1984, but I know, as they knew, a better day is on the horizon. 

So today, I die, but tomorrow, tomorrow will be as glorious as spring at Walden Pond.