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Ode to a Rotten Morning - Editorial Commentary Article by Dragoon Babic

Shiver-me-limber. It’s morning again and I’m cold. This blanket is tucked around me like the skin they wrap around sausage meat. My arms are clenched tight to my chest and I am all of a sudden conscious of the lack of warmth in my right ear. It’s cold. It’s dark-winter-morning cold. My exposed extremities are desperate for the warming embrace of a sympathetic soul. A parent or a lover who might provide a less traumatic transition from dreams into reality. Someone who could rub my blood warm. Instead I wake up to the morning felicitations of this dank and dreary room; coughing with a suffocation brought on by the primordial patches of damp that have enveloped the walls. The smell of it fills my nostrils and leaves a dry itchy sensation at the back of my throat. This is a familiar feeling. It worries me to think how used I have gotten to swallowing and ingesting vast quantities of these tiny fungal particles in my sleep. These spores breathe more air than I do. Perhaps THEY should be paying the rent?

As usual I have woken up long before I intended to. This is partly due to my preoccupation with punctuality but mostly it is a result of the Baltic condition of my room. My feet are now stupidly pushing and writhing past one another in a retarded attempt to generate a little warmth. But any success in this venture is immediately lost when the motion stops. So I decide to quit from this tedious task and begin to focus all my will on reluctantly surrendering this modicum of insulated warmth and getting out of bed.

This process is always a difficult one; this is because I find it nigh-on-impossible to rouse myself from this surrogate womb (side-thought: does the Gaelic word “leaba” have an etymological relation to the female “labia”?) without at least half an hours scrutiny on the quality of such an idea or tangential ruminations on other unrelated matters.

Forcefully ejecting myself from this cocoon, this sanctuary, this protective filter from the outside world has become, for me, a task of Herculean proportions. Curled like a foetus in this island of safety and comfort I am yet unbridled by the monotony and futile implications of another pitiful day.

It was once suggested to me that birth is the most traumatic experience of a person’s life. Being violently pulled from the solitary warmth and comfort of the womb, where all the food and nutrition you could possibly crave is delivered at regular intervals, seems to me a gross assault on the autonomy of another human being. As that old curmudgeon Sam Beckett once quipped; birth was the death of me. It seems I relive this death every morning when I get out of bed.

I baulk and choke with scorn at the people who say they wake up every morning with a smile; in eager anticipation of the day and all the potential that it holds. That's all clap-trap, pish-posh and poppy-cock. I would need to be awake all day before I mustered the strength to get out of bed. Waking up is a gruelling, torturous sort of a thing. Proof:

Only fifteen minutes ago I was ignorantly plumbing the depths of my infinite and mysterious subconscious through a diaspora of surreal and personal scenes, sets and images. Whilst lost in the eye of this cerebral storm I was completely oblivious to all worldly concerns and unshackled from the cumbersome and irrational anxieties which go hand-in-hand with the modern world.

Now, in contrast, I am facing the prospect of another day scuttling indeterminately on the hamster-wheel of life. A day which will begin with struggle and continue in tedium. A day that will be sandwiched by bouts on public transport, where I will flaunt my brotherly union with the rest of humanity by trying my best to pretend that it does not exist, and consisting of a stale meat filling of drudgery and boredom.

People say that dreams reveal secrets which are connected to issues which you might have in your personal or professional life. But I think they have it the wrong way round; I think our lives merely exist to fuel our dreams, and it is during our sleeping hours that we are most alive.

Compared to the anxieties experienced in the real world—the torments of your dreams are only ever a secondary abstraction. Nothing compared to the real thing.

The dreamer is, most of the time, unconscious of his dreams. He is caught in an ever shifting digression of the same ideas. The same carnal ideas. Be they good, bad or indifferent—because there is such a thing as a mundane dream—they usually fail to assert on the mind any sort of genuine fear or anxiety.

Not like the anxiety of your waking hours, no-siree-bob. Those periods of ennui tend to pass by with the monotonous regularity of an arthritic post-women; delivering waves of bad consciousness in the intermittency of trivial existence.

Dreams are the cure! They are projections of the mind framed by a perpetual vitality but coloured with the passive interest of a wealthy idler. The absolute permanence which one experiences while in a dream, the unconsidered thought of their reality, is only perpetuated by the aphoristic nature of their fleetingness; a peculiar quality which can only be recognised after the unhappy return to the world by the dreamer.

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