The Awakening: or, Eat Your Heart Out Chopin

DEAR JOURNAL,,,…!!!  AS I OPENED my eyes at thirty minutes after the sixth hour this morning before the break of dawn, I was suddenly bound to a certain image.  No, this was not a mental image; on the contrary, journal, this image was part of the environ that consists of my sleeping quarters.  The image, one that was magnificently unaesthetic to my ocular method of perception, DISPLEASED AND HORRIFIED ME.  ”GRAGH,” I declared to the image that spelt out and expressed every nightmare I had ever dreamt and every ill thought anyone had ever thought ON me.   The image, as strange as it sounds, entranced me with its sublimity and I was not able to force mine eyes away from the pattern of colors and lines it consisted of.  It was, I suppose, in complete control of my life at that time.  (It is here, journal, that I have an opportunity to branch off into some branch of philosophy and reflect on what it really means to be in control of one’s life, but I know you tire of such ramblings).   THE WISDOM OF MY YOUTH came crashing down upon my poor mind in torrential loads.   Journal, that didn’t make any sense; what I meant was that I was finally able to see clearly after having been awake for a few minutes.  The image, it seems, was my feline companion.     He asked me, “why do you look at me with wide eyes as if I were some apparition that lacked corporeal form?”   “Devil!  Abhorred beast!” said I.  ”How dare you!”  But I soon forgave and submitted to the little fellow when I realized he spoke in a tongue I was familiar with and also held the point of a small knife to my wide, shining forehead.