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He awoke early, no sign of sunlight slipping around the blanket covering the window. A glance at the cable box confirmed the reason for the darkness, blue LEDs indicating the early morning hour. He closed his eyes, pressing his eyelids with his fingers to clear the blur. When he reopened them he could see the numbers clearly. The numbers reminded him of numbers inscribed on the bottom of the beverage cup from that fast food joint. But was that 17? He thought, or 16? Glancing over at his roommate lightly snoring beside him, he cautiously lifted her arm from its resting place on his chest and slid out of bed.
In the dining room he located the white paper cup printed with the restaurant's logo in red lettering: In-N-Out Burger. The cup was half-full; he drank the remaining lemonade, pink juice dribbling down his chin. The cup empty, he flipped his wrist and located the cup's inscription: John 3:16. He recognized the numbers but had long ago forgotten which passage of the Bible this evoked; he'd never been a reader of scripture, even when he'd been a devout Christian. Still, he felt he should at least recognize the more common passages and he was positive this was one of them. He was certain he'd recognize the passage once he dug it up later but it was too early for meaningless research. He had to figure out why he was unable to sleep.
He sat on a chair outside the door of his apartment and waited for the answer. He only had a vague notion what the question was; he only knew something had been troubling him. A breeze seemed to be answering, warm and strong in the dark. He couldn't see the trees in the park he lived next to but he could hear their branches shaking the leaves. He wondered if a storm was brewing. The weather forecasters had warned of tornado conditions earlier in the week and alarms had hollowly cried wolf, but no tornadoes had come. Even the forecasters had seemed disappointed when there'd been no reports of damage, no funnels touching down and ripping apart the weakest structures in its path.
God. What was it about God? Why was everyone so hung up on their God, their gods -- their saviors and their Higher Powers, their Krishnas and their Supreme Beings? As far as he could figure, the natural world was awesome enough in its own right. There wasn't any need to look elsewhere for explanations -- the explanation was right there in front him, right there in every person's back yard. It wasn't necessary to seek a voice of Truth in a deity beyond physical awareness; Mother Nature had already provided a caressing wind to comfort the insomniacs, lonely and in need of contact in the early morning hours. Even in the darkness her light outlined the shadows of the trees and houses, providing company wherever angels were sought...
Even She, he thought, capitalizing the pronoun in the sentence of his mind, Even nature is a god, a superhero...everyone's mother. He sighed at himself, running his fingers over the expensive package of Natural American Spirit cigarettes he wouldn't be able to afford any longer, inserting the brand name within the context of his thoughts: Natural. American. Mother Spirit. Mother American. He pulled a cigarette from the pack and struggled to light it, the flame from the imitation Zippo fighting to survive the strengthening breeze. Natural Motherfucking American Spiritual Shit! He examined the lighter and pulled from the cigarette, enjoying the warm air filling his lungs while forcing himself to block the cancerous thoughts forming in his mind. He outlined the forms of trees with his smoldering cigarette. God, we're all so full of it. We're all a bunch of phonies. He looked skyward, surprised to find a few bright stars returning his gaze. We're all a bunch of nobodies seeking status.
He felt surprised by his anger, the rage building up inside of him this early in the morning. Sleep was supposed to relax a person, not stir him up. Wasn't he supposed to be waking up relaxed and renewed? Wasn't sleep supposed to settle the spirit? He recalled a recent comment he had come across on Facebook, a quotation by the Buddha or some other spiritual leader. Every day you are reborn. Something like that. Maybe the problem was that he had forgotten to put yesterday in its coffin. He'd only slept a few hours so maybe his spiritual timer hadn't been reset. He probably needed to sleep a full eight hours before he could be reborn. That was the requirement, several hours of sleep -- a few hours of sleep wouldn't do. You needed deep sleep; you needed to enter the REM stage. You needed to actually sleep or the new day wouldn't arrive. Santa Claus won't come if you don't go to bed.
He'd had reason to be distressed; things hadn't been going so well for him lately.
TO BE CONTINUED