The first assault is auditory. A chipper, synthesized marimba melody cuts through the blissful abyss of sleep, a sound so aggressively cheerful it should be illegal before 9:00 AM. It’s the daily clarion call, the universe’s most insulting suggestion: “Rise & shine!”
My soul, which was busy peacefully cataloging obscure anxieties in a dream about sorting mismatched socks, groans. To ‘rise’ implies an upward trajectory, a sense of purpose and lightness. My soul currently feels like a wet wool blanket. To ‘shine’ suggests a certain luminescence, a polished readiness for the day. My soul’s current ambition is to achieve the dull, matte finish of a forgotten rock.
Then the body chimes in. It’s less of a chime and more of a full-system shutdown. A formal veto is issued by my legs, which have suddenly adopted the properties of decorative concrete. My arms, having staged a coup, have declared allegiance to the pillow, wrapping it in a death grip of defiance. My eyelids, sealed with the industrial-grade adhesive of REM sleep, send a clear memo to my optic nerves: “We’re closed for business. Try again tomorrow. Or maybe next week.” The gravitational pull of the mattress intensifies, a small, localized black hole of comfort from which no light or motivation can escape.
Meanwhile, my last remaining brain cell, the sole occupant of a vast and echoing cranial boardroom, stirs. It flickers to life like a fluorescent bulb in a condemned hallway, buzzing erratically. Its first task is to process the “Rise & shine!” command. After several long, buffering moments, it projects a single, decisive slide onto my consciousness: a pie chart. 99% is colored “Absolutely Not.” The remaining 1% is a sliver labeled “Fine, but we’re complaining the whole time.”
Under the warm sanctuary of the duvet, a silent, unanimous vote is cast. The tripartite government of Me—Body, Soul, and Brain Cell—ratifies its official platform for the day: “Grumble & Recline.” It’s a policy built on sound logic and profound self-awareness. Grumbling is a far more honest emotional expression than ‘shining.’ Reclining is a physically superior state to ‘rising.’ The campaign is flawless, the mandate is clear.
Yet, the marimba continues its tyrannical chirping. A distant sense of responsibility—a mortgage, a job, a cat who believes starvation is imminent if his bowl is not filled within the next thirty seconds—begins its slow, insidious creep. The “Grumble & Recline” party, despite its overwhelming popular support, lacks the external power to enforce its agenda.
With a sigh that carries the weight of a thousand defeated resolutions, I swing my legs out of bed. My body protests, my soul mutters darkly, and my brain cell begins drafting a strongly-worded letter of complaint to be filed later with a cup of coffee. I am rising, but I am most certainly not shining. I am a reluctant participant in the day, a loyal constituent of a shadow government, forever championing the noble, comfortable, and far more realistic cause of Grumble & Recline.
