Gazillion Days - Single Day In History (by breannastarfish)

MORNING

This morning, oddly, starts at 2 am. I am in the middle of finishing my senior thesis, and I guess you could say the stress is taking its toll, because I have a new and interesting reoccurring problem with a fun phenomenon called "Sleep Paralysis."

I wake up in my bed, shortly after falling asleep, and I can see and hear but I can't move my body. My mind is half-sleeping, so dreams are interspersed with consciousness, all of it taking place in my bedroom.

This morning, I dream that I am having a seizure, my teeth chattering so hard they fall apart, and the whole room is full of sinister house cats, none of whom make one move to help me. I finally snap out of it, terrified, and read for the four hours until sunrise.

The morning seems strangely beautiful, white-washed and glowing. I make coffee, sure that I will need it, and prepare myself to go to school.

AFTERNOON

I am hazy and excitable throughout my six-hour class day. I tell everyone I meet about sleep paralysis, I feel incredibly interesting, and find the world beautiful and hilarious.

My eyes, however, are burning, and on the rare occasion where I am unfortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a mirror, I see that I am the visual intersection of exhaustion and derangement.

In cinema lecture, we watch Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will." My stomach churns, I become suddenly certain that I am going to faint, be sick or die. I leave the room in what, at the time, I perceive as an orderly fashion. I am later told it was a sprint.

Free unexpectedly early, I go to Jamba Juice. I feel as though I am dreaming, and dream-me feels that a high-calorie fruit smoothie will both settle my stomach and clear my mind of the 1934 Nazi Congress at Nuremberg. She is not altogether wrong.

EVENING

The juice has indeed revived me. I listen to the Beach Boys as I walk to Midtown. I have one thing left to do before I get the only thing I want now in the entire world--sleep.

I am meeting my thesis editor to discuss revisions of the story collection I am working on. Everything he says when we meet at a Starbucks across from his office elicits riotous laughter on my part.

He has a strange aversion to all references to vomiting in fiction, and I get lost considering the psychological implications of this avoidance. He smiles knowingly; he thinks I am on some kind of drug. I take the edits from him and head home, hoping he made thorough notes, because, besides a long list of euphemisms for hurling, I haven't heard a word he's said.

I go home and take a bath. Every muscle in my body is aching. I start watching the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Luckily, I already know how it ends. I am asleep before the second number, and this time, I stay that way.

THE END

Unique Day

of a Student
from Brooklyn

Unique Day

of a Technical Writer
from Glens Falls

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