This is how it happens in most cases. This is how I see it. I'm somewhere in the land of subconscious yet, and the sound of chainsaw wakes me up. I wonder if they are going to cut down all the remaining trees in the yard. Because they are determined, with their chainsaws that wake me up every day in the morning.
I take a look at the window to check how many trees are still left. I still can see the trees in front of my window, and it reassures me. Though the area to the left is turning into a desolated and empty spot, which is depressing.
I woke up still hearing multiples dialogues the multiple imaginary people had in my head. When I wake up the first thing I do is - I compose some train of thoughts to get hold of the situation. This way I can say I'm on track. It would be difficult otherwise to tell what exactly is going on, apart from the feeling of nerve wrecking constant passage of time.
I see the alarm clock thinking once again how useless it is for me. It never woke me up, probably it's too quiet or the batteries need replacement. And all my clocks begin to move forward ahead of time, probably aware of the fact that I'm never on time and trying to compensate it.
The sounds from the street comprise the familiar monotone. Probably the only thing different is a hissing of wind now and then.
The birds sing in a clipped short way as if they are preoccupied with something, not having much time for a meaningless conversation. There are some pragmatic and businesslike attitudes in their voices.
The sun appears and disappears multiple times during the day. When it disappears, it feels like it's the late autumn again. The Perpetual autumn. Cold wind ruffles the foliage on the trees that survived the storm.
Then the clouds suddenly disappear, and there is a flood of warm sunshine again. As if it's a time travel through many years with the seasons rapidly succeeding each other. When it's the summer minutes again, the wind subsides. And everything becomes quieter. And the sounds of birds are less businesslike and more relaxed and dreamy.
Every time I rearrange the things in my room I find myself in a different place. As if just placing all the notepads and pens from the table to the shelf, for example, transfers me to some different room.
The table, cleared from all those small distracting objects, turns into some symbol of efficiency. It acquires some dynamic quality. If it was a living creature, it would probably be talking about travels, cheap airline tickets, and the best ways to organize routes and schedules. There is some air of adventurism about it.
The sounds from above never change throughout the years. Somebody's jumping and then falling on the floor with a wild roar. It has been this way for years. Like five years ago it was the same sequence of sounds. I wonder why I'm not curious about what's going on there.
I wonder why I cannot hear the sound of a clock, though it's always here, it never ceases to exist.