• Marieska Luzada

groundhog day

here i lay in this twin bed

staring up at the milky white ceiling

that’s textured like mountain peaks.

the time reads 8:27,

and after falling in and out of slumber

i elevate myself to ninety degrees

and let my bare toes meet the hardwood floor.


the sheer curtains invite me over

and i heel-toe to gaze out the window

to be met with a second-grade painting:

a cloudless cerulean sky

and a quarter of the sun peeking from the top left corner.


i face the tree trunk road.


the tree trunk road

that branches off into cul-de-sacs,

that leads to houses with 9-to-5-ers making their morning coffee,

houses with children slowly waking up to morning television,

houses with college-bounders on their way to chick-fil-a breakfast.


the tree trunk road

that acts as the path for every district school bus,

school busses packed with yappering children already excited for lunch,

school busses packed with pre-teen cringey gossip,

school busses packed with freshmen and sophomores getting their last snooze before class.


the tree trunk road

with sidewalks filled with students on their way to school,

filled with suburban moms walking their “energy pill” dogs,

filled with health gurus with their armbands and baseball caps,

filled with elders getting their vitamin d.


the tree trunk road

that was never quiet.


the tree trunk road

that was never boring.


the tree trunk road

that was never empty.


this emptiness,

this boredom,

this quietness,

leaves me without motivation,

without drive,

without purpose.


i wake up everyday to a picturesque image,

just to see the same thing,

just to do the same routine,

just to hear silence.


i wake up

to a living irony.


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