5 AM

you open your eyes very much unlike the way you open them at five in the morning, your mind alternately blank and full of recently-filed images of the last sixty seconds and panic suddenly seize you as you realize you’re in a strange yet familiar room. beads of perspiration ooze out of the pores of your forehead and you feel that musky smell of sweat reeking out of your armpits. your scalp is wet, your feet cold, your body limp. then you see yourself 40 years younger in a faded sepia-tinted picture fittingly framed and neatly nailed on a wall far from the window. you were three then, posing in a photographer’s studio, holding a plastic telephone and smiling your heart away on your very first photo shoot. and relief comes over you as your eyes, darting here and there, navigate your immediate vicinity. you’re in your own bed in the safe confines of your own bedroom.

you were dreaming. some men in black chasing you up and down some narrow alleyways of some gothic-looking neighborhood and just as you reach a dead end and your pursuers are ready to gang up on you, you mumble something incoherently like a prayer and this is when your eyes open. you are thankful it was only a dream, and in a bizarre sort of way, you cannot even remember any of the vividness that woke you up in the first place.

you shake the shock off a bit, grateful you are alive. you brush the nightmare aside as you struggle between staying put and getting up – a mental exercise that you have been so accustomed to at this particular time of day.

you choose to be wiser and make the day count. you get up, hesitatingly at first, but when your brain jolts you out of your stupor and connects you to the line-up of to-do things for the day, you decide to be alive, alert, awake, enthusiastic as a grade school song reminds you. you get startled when the alarm clock blares its 5:30am duty.

you roll your head in a comic attempt at exercising and settled against it when you feel you are straining some muscles in your neck. you smile at the fib. you check the flab hanging around the perimeter of your boxers and thoughtfully pat them as you forego, yet again, the ritual 50 sit-ups you so vigorously and routinely adopted six months earlier.

you drag yourself to the toilet along with your semi-erection urging you to discharge your first pee of the day, cursing yourself as dribbles of the hot fluid find their way on your newly-installed beige toilet-seat cover. you dismiss your clumsiness and attribute it to age. somehow you manage to disrobe and force yourself under the shower. the cold water sends shivers down your spine. you dislike the cold water because it reminds you of the many winters you weathered in a far-flung middle east capital where, from october to april, you inhaled superficial heat emanating from portable room heaters, but you nevertheless take mental note for the nth time to get that water heater installed pronto, never mind if it wreaks havoc on your ever-shrinking budget.

you turn your stereo on and mariah, paused from last night, caterwauls about “who else am i gonna lean on when times get rough, who’s gonna talk to me on the phone till the sun comes up…”. yeah, right. you sheepishly press STOP and replace mariah with alison moyet’s yazoo of the 80’s… "our father who art in heaven..." prelude to IN MY ROOM.

and you figure, yes, Father in heaven, this is going to be another day…



Alone, but never lonely, in a crowd - a scene as I took a 5-minute vacation from the schedules of the day. It is quite healthful!