I woke up hungry, that inconsolable desire to devour and digest like a knife at my throat demanding satisfaction with promised pain and suffering as the cost of denial. Every morning was like this, an existence purely dedicated to the concept of choice between two bad options.  Do I succumb to the necessitations of my incorrigible desire for sustenance, or roll over and make another attempt in a quarter-hour?  Considering I've come upon this thought, it's doubtful I'll get the gears to stop turning long enough to convince my body to shut down for any longer.  I reluctantly open my eyes and peel back the blankets that managed to wrap me into the frustratingly restricted form of a breakfast burrito.  This thought just provokes my waking primal urge and I rush to complete the daily morning necessities before heading to the kitchen.  

                Breaching the transition from bedroom to kitchen I heaved a large sigh as I took in the scene laid out before me.  What is it about a messy kitchen that immediately kicks the brain in to anxiety-overdrive?  It’s not as if I didn’t know what laid beyond the threshold of my bedroom door.  It’s just that I find it hard to come to terms with the fact that fifteen minutes ago I was in a state of nirvana, the world and all its complications lost on me as I floated senselessly through the void, and now I was staring at the Mt. Everest of three day ignored cutlery, glass, and Tupperware.  Closing my eyes and wishing for some miraculous change of scenery, I breathe deeply, psyching myself up for the inane task ahead.

                Sitting down on the couch with a steaming bowl of apple-cinnamon flavored oats, my senses were assaulted.  I had already heard the serenade of falling water from the faucet for the past twenty minutes and the unmistakable hum of radiation transforming my morning meal into something filling and delectable in an astounding ninety seconds.  Now, my brain registered the feeling of the firm uneven cushions of my sectional pushing against my backside as the steam from my bowl carried sweet scents through my nostrils and the sound of traffic could be heard rushing past my studio apartment.  I swear I can taste my breakfast through my sense of smell and my stomach screams protest to the rest of my body for not indulging its fantasies post haste.  I close my eyes again and let air run into my lungs with leaden shoes.  Oh, so very slowly exhaling while intentionally relaxing my concentration on sensory intake, I expel the last of the converted oxygen and raise the spoon from the warm plastic bowl to my eagerly awaiting lips.

                The bowl never made it back to the cabinet.  That is the only thought I can muster from twenty-five whole years of collected, processed, categorized, and catalogued ideas.  What was the point of doing dishes just to toss the soiled afterthoughts back into the all-consuming cesspit that is the kitchen sink?  I should be focusing on my assignment, instead of being dominated by paltry inclinations of human behavior; however, today has not been the easiest of days for me.  My productivity was already compromised, and I had no worldly intentions of affecting this change in mental state.  Fifteen minutes were all that separated me from the glories of the larger world outside my cramped cubicle.  I would typically use this time to decompress and ponder the events awaiting me post shift (usually a return to tenement followed by a hearty meal for one and a shower).  Today, though, was not a typical day.  I could not remove the mental image of a plain white bowl and small metal spoon resting ever so forgettable within the left side bowl of my kitchen sink. 

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                I’ve been told that I am a pessimist, a genius, an obsessive, a great guy, a maniac, a saint, a demon, and ‘just a little bit different from the rest’.  Years of therapy lead me to believe I may or may not have one or more mental disorders.  I think the therapists are just as nuts as the quack cases they try to crack, like me.  If there was such thing as an ‘ideal’ mental state, I can guarantee nobody on this planet past or present has met its conditions.  In essence, the human mind was a series of electrical impulses in grey and white matter.  These pulses of energy are categorically used, determinable by the variable inputs (senses), to react or record.  In the case of an input requiring reaction, a pulse will issue an order to fight, flee, or freeze; otherwise, the input will be recorded for use in similar situations in the future.  That is all to say that mental states were (in my own unprofessional opinion) completely reactionary; therefore, impossible to have an ideal instance of.  What I wanted to know was why MY brain thought it would be a good idea to reverse this process.  As if standing there in person, I could see its round edge, the metal handle protruding from the symmetrical visual output so as not to fall within the contents held in the bowl.  I could even smell apples and cinnamon, notwithstanding that I was seven miles down the highway and sitting next to Richard (our one-man accounting department who does NOT smell like cinnamon in the least) while waiting for the last 4 minutes to tick down on the analog clock hung opposite the exit door to the meager office space.

                Returning to my residence, I unceremoniously dropped my car keys into their resting place in a wooden bowl on a shelf beside the front entrance, and closed the solid wooden door behind myself with a thud likely audible to the neighbors two doors down.  I winced, self-conscious despite the fact I was alone in my home with nary a neighbor nearby to arbitrate my aimless actions.  The combination of induced emotion and sound caused me to loosen the tight grip I consistently held over my self-concept. Closing my eyes, I quickly collected those thoughts and shoved them toward the inner filing cabinet labeled ‘intrusive thoughts’.  I had no intention of losing control again tonight, the last thing I wanted was to crawl into bed and chase the depression dragon.  Upon sight of the subject of my turmoil the action of opening my eyes was fastidiously transitioned into my pupils searching for the inside of my skull.  The bowl sat in the sink, bits of oats and chunks of apple floating in the cloudy water used to soak the unwashed dish. 

                “Eh, maybe later…”, I vocalized, motivation lacking in my vocal cords.

                Sleep was my favorite part of the day.  To me, sleep was the only activity I could fully enjoy.  The process of sleeping is interesting, your brain will use the time you are ‘asleep’ to process and organize any exterior input gained throughout the day.  It also cleans out any undesirable products or proteins created while you’re active, effectively sweeping and resetting while you rest, giving you a fresh start to your next day.  From my perspective, the brain’s typical nightly workload was halved.  I give my mind a helping hand throughout the day, aiding it in the processing and organization of sensory inputs as they happen.  That means all my brain has left to do is sweep up the place and wait.  Typically, this leaves me with a few hours of peace each night; however, this day had been anything but typical, and for the first time in my life I was not permitted to enjoy my time of peace.