In the morning, my eyelids feel glued together, the weight of some pressing spell pushing back down as I struggle to open them, fighting the tug of the mattress that pulls back down into darkness as panic rises in half formed horrors that are part dreamt, terror that I am missing something vital right now, and yet it is fifteen minutes before my heavy eyes stay open and let the light in.
I quickly sit up, turn to the window to force light into my eyes, and fumble at the bedside stand for any device to tell me if I have really missed something life changing. My mind jumps from one terrifying conclusion to another until I have read the calendar. I am not due anywhere till ten.
Still, lazing here will condemn me later to scold myself and imagine spots of laziness as fat or little leeches of genius attaching themselves to me, gluing me down tighter. So I slide my feet to the floor and press them into the wooden boards, the day’s first real sensation calming me and bringing clarity. I dig for shorts in the inevitable pile on my shelf, settle for wearing jeans that I will want to put on later anyway and pad into the living room. In the kitchen awaits tea and on my laptop the cavernous throat of the social internet and on the iPod I clip to my shirt, the lure of tunes not suitable for exercise and on the fridge the tapping toe of the shopping list and notes about chores. The glue stretches me towards them all, gelatinous tendrils pulling in all directions till I am unable to move quickly. But at least my eyes are open now and I am upright and I ignore their tug and begin my stretches.
Afterwards, I am proud of the expanded, worn feeling in my muscles and the fizzing of energy-inspiring blood flow, but almost an hour has passed and the tendrils are expanding, stretching now towards the shops and work, guilt seeding in my stomach like an ache of having gone nowhere.
At my desk, my fingers drum by the steaming teacup struggling to hold onto an ounce of my thinking as I stare at my own unfamiliar words on the screen. The glue has me cocooned tight in the chair but it clings to my mind and my thoughts run slow, what feels like a letter a minute etching onto the page as the windows of the internet behind on the screen and the window of the sunny outdoors behind the desk and the steaming tendril from the kettle on the other side of the room tug gently but insistently on my concentration.
At four thirty the sucking insistence of the shopping and cleaning and home drags me from my seat with little left behind, and I move slowly on.
When food has vanished and the cupboards are full and the television has momentarily sucked the energy from my mind with the lure of a fleeting warm place beside another body, I can barely stand to walk to bed as the mirriad gelatinous strands still clinging to me push down in a heavy web. As I roll heavily onto the mattress and allow my eyelids to flicker, the web slides from my shoulders, reabsorbed into the bed’s softness to reenergise itself as I rest. And though it is now late and I should sleep, recharge my energy to resist it again tomorrow, now suddenly I feel freedom, and energised, hassle my weary partner for attention and a place to use this energy up so I can sleep.