Each morning, when I wake up, I reach for my phone to check the time. It’s simply part of my daily habit, a routine that is seldom challenged, changed, or modified. Last night, I went to bed early, having had the day off due to Christmas, two hours before my routine departure from consciousness. I awoke this morning, as usual, and checked my phone. It was dead. I have unwittingly exhausted its power supply and failed to recharge overnight. I searched for my wristwatch. Nothing. I didn't have the data for which to base my placement in the day with.
You know that sinking feeling of strangeness and confusion inherent in some mornings when you are unsure whether the present is an exceptionally lucid dream, wherein reality is just moments away from bursting in through the door? This was one such occasion. I parted the curtains open, and I viewed the world as a luminous haze, a frozen photograph, a blanket of white, a silence where time was a conjecture devoid of a continuum. The morning was clock-less, and nothing defined the area upon which the moment was in existence. I usually rise from sleep at 9:45 a.m., my body seems to favor it. But here, I didn't know what time it was. Sometimes, one can know judging from the varying angles of sunbeams as they streak across the Douglas firs. It's winter. Anything goes.
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