It is the first rising of the celestial torch that finds me now. It has been another night of sporadic and disjointed rest; in waking, I find my eyelids cemented shut by the solidified secretions from the lacrimal gland.
Those initial seconds of confusion pass, a brief and painful rubbing relents the blinds to allow a vague perception of light; then detail.
The vision before me is foreign, a set of dark objects that seem not to make sense. It takes a while, but soon my visual cortex remembers the natural phenomena of perspective. Distant objects will converge upon each other; the scene morphs out of ambiguity revealing my own room.
This is the second morning I have awoken this way, eyes bloodshot, unrested, unrefreshed, not another. Please make it stop.