The days end

The days end. They end early, before the sun goes down, shortly after it rises, either by rotational force or habit. There are a few seconds when I am waking up that the whole sky lifts with my consciousness, filled with energy, everything is whole with the exploding emptiness of the sky. Everything rushes into it and my eardrums are drawn outward with the absence of pressure. It feels right. It pulls me to pieces in a short breath, and then there is nothing where I was, the shadow of a laboured vacuum at a metal table, a lump beneath the sheet, but not me. In that instant every part of me is as far away from itself as it can be. It can only begin moving closer, and the days wandering toward each other, becoming one unending. The day ends when I feel myself all coalescing back together. When the darkness, or the confrontation of some incursive process, changing effects on my body, making my body recognize them and pushing me into one place, into something with edges that ends, whose influence ends, when other stars appear out of the clearing sky above the ocean.