Creator of Days – Dead Deer

Creator of Days

“What are days? Days are where we live.”

Philip Larkin – Days

This is morning. It crawls in, in a fog that clears as awareness overcomes, in stages, perhaps. Who makes my days now? Not I, I think, although the uncontrolled hyper-activity within my skull must take some blame. Yet, it is morning, during this process of emerging into our conscious state, that it is calmed, mostly, at least for a few seconds. First comes light.

Or is the light first? I am here, just, fumbling for who I am, where I am. The primal and modern human interact as this basic state has a need imposed upon it. Time. What is the time? A host of modern devices provide this information – the sun, or lack of, is just broad strokes – and by the time it has all registered the horror of day ahead is rebounding around and around my head.

Recently the day has been so hard to face, removing oneself from bed has been almost too great a hurdle. Staying in bed, also unthinkably grim. A no-man’s land briefly, safe in here. Not safe, but the day’s failures do not commence until the first foot hits the floor. Unless … unless this takes too long, then the failure starts prostrate.

Who is the creator of these days? Not I. One far away who is never far from my thoughts. He has created this monster that I am failing to live with. He, whose days are full of weightless structure, of contentedness punctuated with sparks of happiness. A scale, a direct correlation.

My days are misery, unstructured and full of sparks of desolation, sparks that sting, and form my days. Created of cruelty.

Today I wrote  between 20:18 and 20:28. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.


If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

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