"Mo(u)rning"

November 16, 2018; Prose Poetry

There are mornings, occasionally, where I wake up and can tell nothing good will come of it. My brain feels vacant, as if every bit of information that was there the night prior as packed its bags and has gone for a trip to Europe. I get out of bed, get dressed, eat breakfast, and remember none of it. My soul has left my body. It feels as though someone else has taken control, puppeting around my body-shaped flesh sack, leaving me, as I know me, to curl up somewhere dark in the very back of my mind. I feel like a human ghost, haunting the same familiar haunts. Morning? Or mourning?