Stuck to silk sheets whilst most slide off right into their slippers. Sometimes starting the day is all we can do, dropping all our spoons before we've used one for a meal. As I, the puppeteer, heave this vessle out of bed as if a cross-brace has taken over.
Tearing clothes out the wardrobe to dress myself, this shirt, those jeans? No, joggers? sure. Something, anything, just get dressed, I stand here half exposed and chilly. If I could get dressed for tomorrow in advance, I would.
Descending the staircase, gliding my hands over textured Glass bead wall paper, familiar surroundings to help guide me in this zombified state of an ungodly forenoon hour. I've never been a sunrise person.
Making way to a treasure trove of corn based cereal and wheat bread, what do I want for breakfast? As I stand staring disoriented at; Carbs, cereals, preserves, butter, cheese. My eyes feasting as a peasant child but my stomach struggling it's cold start for the meal to ingest. Infront now lays a bowl along with it's pairing mug topped to the brim. Filled the bowl to fill myself, but draining with it, fueling myself for another day to survive. I had to use a spoon but not just for the cereal.
Spreading butter on whole, thinking about how the work day will take it's toll. What can I put on this I'll actually eat? Marmite? I might. It's a guessing game what conscious me will actually want later in the day. Outta bed, self fed, bread spread and bus stop ahead.
I walk to the bus, through torrential downpour, am I still in the city or the amazon rain forest? Hard to tell as I kick through wet shrubs and patchy paths, making the bus by only a fraction. Why bother with a schedule if they show up when they feel like it? Guess that's Britain's public transport for you. I try to pick the seat closest to the door, makes getting ready to leave plus the walk over while in motion, significantly easier, safer and it's a calming place to sit. But I still don't favour public transport and survive on lifts where possible. I'm learning to peddle my own cart but it's taking time.
Once off the bus, I make my final stride to the premises. A busy location with lots to take in, people staring, are they staring or are they looking as they drive. It's hard to tell, realistically no one's looking at me. But the mind tricks us.
Now in the building, arriving early as I always do. settling my bag down, placing myself on the chair, waiting for the clock-in machine to stay money'o'clock. It's only eight hours, how hard can it be? Well the first hour already felt like three..
Stationed at my post, while it is the job I love, it's also what drains me the most. Roughly only 16% of us in the UK maintain full time, while I'm part of the greater 40% overall in some form of paid work. I'm part time. The last fourteen months I've been here, have been life changing. However, this last two specifically have been hard. I'm restrategising my work flow, I use to bang out as many shifts as I could, but I fear the first twelve months of doing that have landed me in mass spoon debt. This last two months I've been slower, worked out how much I need to actually do to get what the money I'm comfortable with, rather than aiming big for that enormous cheque.
This day was long, carcass drained like a battery- No, a capacitor. I only hold a small charge compared to most. Most people work like a lithium battery. More energy and peak performance for the majority of their day. Whereas we relate to the Alkaline, shorter burst of energy, performance declining with the sun. It's time to go home.
Home now. Time to face the shower. Clothes off, body cold, wet, sweaty from work. One leg over the tub followed by the other, swinging like a uprooting tree in a tropical depression. I rince my body, wash my hair, god my arms and back know pain, a close friend. The physical torture of stacking, standing, bending, all of it. I enjoy work, couldn't imagine being anywhere else, but it is hard on me. Anywhere would be so I've gotta make it work.
Body dried, hair as best I can, put up out the way, PJ's on. I lay spacing out in bed while dad makes food, I'd love to be of help. But a puppet I am no more, a ragdoll more like. My strings are cut, spoons gone.