Murden in the A.M.

…..the alarm clock rang shrilly somewhere off to his left and he instinctively realized that he was currently in the process of switching gears from a deeper level of consciousness to this shallower one that seemed to altogether characterize his banal days spent on Earth’s rocky crust. And he grunted softly in dissatisfaction then because he knew that he was leaving unfinished business behind, probably never to be completed at any point in the future. The dream from just seconds before lingered in his brain since it was so vivid, so lifelike……so crucial to his very existence!  And yet he knew as soon as he hopped out of bed and started getting dressed for the virgin day now fully arrived, that weird but somehow essential storyline from the night before would hurriedly disappear from his memory banks not unlike the dementia that skulks around to relentlessly plague and sabotage countless old farts’ recall capabilities—doubtless never to reappear in the exact same fashion. Ergo he mourned the inevitable loss of an integral part of his entity as he pulled on his trousers, scrambled to find a clean dirty shirt, and stared in the dresser mirror, because the narrative in which he was the featured player just minutes earlier was now destined for consciousness’s trash bin and—zooming ahead in time some twenty-four hours—there too he would almost certainly find himself decrying the permanent loss of another different but no less vital plotline ginned up by subconscious gremlins while the rest of his body slept and reenergized for the next day…..