waking up - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I wake the way kings wake, just the same. We are all blessed with the same time, the same experience of consciousness. My eyes greet the dayshine, my heart and lungs expand. There are times that I feel that I must have been so blessed to live the same day over and over, even though I age, for those first few moments are so identical. At first there are the dreams, then the sense of welcoming a new day, the anticipation of whatever comes.
I wake as if it's an emergency, as if sleeping had become a dangerous thing. My heart beats fast and there is a buzzing in my brain and together they are as panic with jump-leads. Only now my brain is as a flat battery, the exertions of the night being a marathon of erratic problem-solving. And so this day will pass as if I am hungover, not from drink, but from the nightmares that demand solutions.
Give me a moment to shed the sleep from my brain, to allow the visions of the night to give way to the day, to move from that which I create on a whim to things more fixed and real. In a few minutes I will be able to greet the sunlight, to see the colours as bright as the backlit images of cinema screens; I will adjust. For now let it come with the subtleness of a gentle dawn and let me doze underwing. I'll be there soon, I'll wake up, you'll see.
The egg yolk sun poured through the cracks in the blind and awaited entrance into Amelia's eyes. Sight still in the clutches of the night's glue, she hesitantly rubbed the dreams away. Thoughts of the visions in sleep come and go in waves, clinging on to the very last memory of the night but with little success.
Upon waking, Stan burrowed himself into the warm, soft sheets. He rubbed the remainders of sleep from his eyes and gazed out at the horizon; its vivid light extended across a rosy sky. He supposed this was something the majority of people would consider beautiful, but he found it strange, hard even, to find something so meaningful in something so every-day. It's not like the sun wouldn't rise, it had, after all, been reliably happening since the beginning of time. So what was so special about it? He could never feel the joy from it others did, the magic that drew so many artists and photographers in, as if they had some lens or filter he'd missed out on.
Waking up is no longer the pleasure it was. There is a fleeting moment when I am whole again but it evaporates faster than summer rain off the burnt earth. Then my lids that were drooping and leaden with sleep snap open as violently as if I'd been woken by the raid sirens wailing. There haven't been bombs for a week now, but not a person remains untouched. Only half the houses of our street remain standing and they are crowded with grieving survivors. I'm one of them, one of the dispossessed, relying on the charity of neighbours. So by the time my eyes are open my brain has become overwhelmed all over again as if it were all new, fresh, raw. I wish I could linger in that blissful ignorance of waking or else never sleep.
As I rouse from a heavy slumber I am first aware of the coolness of the air and it's loamy fragrance. The ground is lumpy as if I were on a bed of earth and rocks. My clothes feel as damp as a flower in the dew of the dawn. I half wonder if I'm still dreaming as I sit up to take in the shafts of light that burst through the gaps in the leaf canopy above. Now I'm awake, perhaps more fully awake than I've ever been. There are no paths around me and no sign of another person. As far as I can tell I am alone with the birds who make their carefree song around me, and in that sweet melody I feel more alone. This bizarre nightmare is mine alone. It's worse though than it first appears, usually after this point in waking I know who I am, and I don't. I can't think of a name that belongs to me or a single person I know. Any face my subconscious offers has as much resonance as a total stranger. I wouldn't know my own mother if she walked right in front of me, if I have one that is.
I wake like I'm hooked up the mains. No sleepiness, no slow warming up. Within seconds of realizing I was unconscious I am on my feet, eyes wide, dreams not just forgotten but erased. I am drinking in the feedback of all my senses. Aside from my own noisy breath there is nothing to be heard and the woods are simply too dark to see much at all. Black trunks against an almost black backdrop doesn't make for much too see and my imagination begins to supply horrors to fill the void. After a minute or two the sound of running water permeates the inky blanket. I am near a brook. A brook would hide my scent, cover my tracks. I want to run, but it is with faltering steps and raised hands I move on, like a sick game of "blind man's bluff." I want to silence my feet, but all I do is step on twigs and kick stones.
Waking up can be really harsh, especially if your dreams are better than reality. The saddest part of it is, though, that eventually even the memory of your dream will fade - if you are even lucky enough to remember it that is. Then you're left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only proof that you ever had the dream to begin with.
From the carousel of random ideas comes some order - a subtle awareness of who I am under the flow of thoughts with their loose connections to my waking life. After a few moments more I begin to analyze them in a lazy way, perhaps these ideas are meant to be kept. Some are composed as if from a book I once read, some are just silly. In another moment they are gone leaving no trace. If they are still in my head there is no bread crumb trail back to them. My eyelids flicker open to the unlit room. No daylight. I close them again, willing the carousel to return, for my mind to tumble back to dreams, but it won't. Now the tasks of the day are demanding I think about them, find solutions, get jobs done by day's end. I am awake and there is no retreat. I steal a glance at the pointless alarm clock, glowing red, and reach out to turn off the buzzer. Once 6:30am was a rude awakening, now it is an impossible target. It would take at least a week of vacation to get there...
Slowly and reluctantly, I uncover my face. I blink, close my eyes, and blink again. Streaks of sunlight penetrate the window and blind me. I sit up, drag my feet off the bed, and rub my knuckles onto my eyes. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I watch my legs dangle above the off-white polyester carpet.
I woke up from a restless sleep due to the rough waves to glimpse at the glowing and radiant sun peaking above the horizon out of my window. It extended its vivid light across the deep crimson sky. Its dazzling and inviting rays flowed through the window providing warmth to my body. Slowly the fatigue of the long journey was seeping out of me as the welcoming rays trickled in to replacing my unrest - it relaxed my body. Eventually I got out of bed and stumbled across to the other side of the cabin as my drowsiness had still not left me.
As hard as it was to try and not hold my breath, I knew deep down I had to hold reason to. Along with work, study, attempting to keep any sort of social life, the occasional romantic spark still being lit and my family dramas; it was safe to say I felt as if my life was drowning. As if trying to keep my head above water when the tide was still only shallow was a real burden not only on myself, but everyone else. Swallowing hard, I clutched furiously at my chest, hoping that by a scratch or simple graze, my heart would stop racing, and my body just might entirely shut down – causing me clarity. The fluorescent numbers of the alarm clock beside my bedside table teased me with the time of 3am and I harshly rubbed at my eyes with bruised palms, yawning only gently as to not
The etching sound that lightly danced across the bedroom window was enough to send my back straight; up like a bold in pitch darkness as a cold sweat washed over my face and chest – heart trying to escape through my throat the first chance it could get. Nights lately, hadn’t been at all easy on me; the disappearance of my sister a few months back had shaken me, uprooted my sanity – and whilst I swore I wouldn’t shut my eyes until they found her, I kept remembering the words one detective reminded us, “After the first 48, its safe to assume the worst.”
You have to wake up. You have to wake up, and soon. It isn’t just you either, everyone needs to awaken or we all die. We die and planet earth dies too. Earth will spring back and reboot in a few million years, but it will start from scratch again. That’s the only scary thing I’m allowed to tell you, it falls under the galactic rules of “fair warning”- after this statement all fear for fear’s sake is forbidden. Why? You’ll find that out in our conversations. I won’t give up on you. I won’t leave you until you are awake because that is my mission and I love you. I don’t promise to be perfect, never to get frustrated or moody, but I’ll always return to help you once I've cooled off. There is a way out of this mess and it’s so easy you won’t believe me if I tell you right now, you’ll leave our conversation and carry on as you were before, believing that anyone who advises otherwise is a crack pot. Indeed, if anyone asks why you are still talking to me, still carrying on, you have my permission to tell them that “waking up is a load of nonsense” and I’m “interesting because you want to understand mental illness.” That’s fine with me. But when you are awake you’ll have a choice to make. Change and help to save this planet and every living thing on it, or go back to sleep in the false safety of “being normal.” Who am I? Don't worry about that now, we're going to get to know each other really well. Time to begin, there's a lot of wool to pull from your eyes.
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
The lazy wind pushes against the unmown grass like a child sending dandelion seeds on their way: one o'clock, two o'clock, three. Above the white wisps trail and the late spring sun brings a welcoming warmth that coats me as good as caramel over a harvest apple. My watch says it is near noon and I lay down here at ten, yet somehow my memory of the time is no more than ten minutes, twenty at the most. With a long exhale I can detect the tell tale signs that my brain is still waking from a nap, there are the vestiges of a dream, turning in nonsensical ways, grasping to remain. Then from nowhere comes the memory of where I'm supposed to be by this time and before the dream can reassert itself my feet are taking me down the knoll to the path below.
As my eyes open my limbs flex in shock. There is a liquid in them, around my entire body too. Tubes run up each nostril and all that meets my skin is the warm glass that surrounds. There is binding on my limbs and around my neck. Without a conscious thought, a choice, my body does what any must to survive. Every muscle is stronger than it should ever be and there is no mental restraint on the force I can use. Snapped bones are preferable to death. In this way my captors have underestimated my strength. The liquid rushes out of the newly shattered glass and I step out, bindings in place but their anchor points free.
I want to stand but for the moment my legs have given way to gravity, shaky, weak. The retching goes on for so long I loose track of time and then I realize what the stench is. This isn't water at all, it's a preservative of some kind. I blink, blurriness fading, surroundings more crisp. The coldness of the air is more apparent, stealing the warmth given to me by the foul concoction that has swept over the grey floor. I want to use all my senses, get a feel for whatever this is, but the foul odour dominates the air and the chill freezes my skin and the little brain power I can muster.
“Pouah!” I scoffed, rolling over in my slovenly sheets as the sunlight hissed at my face. My disheveled, bright red curls were scattered across my pillow, and every breath I exhaled smelled faintly of ammonia and eviscerated, decomposing corpses. Thankfully, I had nobody to share this putrid moment with. Glancing around my room, I noticed a messy assortment of notebooks, freshly-sharpened colored pencils and other stationery items giving me a great aesthetic pleasure. Slowly but surely, I pushed myself out of bed, letting my feet hit the cool, linoleum floor.
My dream ended abruptly, as I was shaken back into reality. My eyes opened, my eyelashes faintly batting against my lids when I blinked. I laid on my couch, debating whether or not I should get up. My muscles felt weak, just like my energy. I let out an exasperated sigh, groaning as I rolled off of the sepia-colored sofa I had been occupying. What time was it? How long had I been asleep? Did I have clothes on? All of these questions shot through my mind as I let out a loud yawn, ready to start (or continue) the day.
Everything is blurry. For a second, you never know who or where you are. You don't know how you got in that bed, or how you got in those clothes. Then, everything is processed. You are in your room. The thing above you is the ceiling. The thing on top of you is the duvet. The thing underneath you is the pillow and mattress. The thing you are wearing is your pyjamas. You can see everything clearly now. You slowly sit up. You slowly wake up.