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There's a sense of waking, but my eyes won't open and I can't hear anything, no crinkle of sheets, no cars in the street.  I have a sense of touch but as if its far away, like having to reach for the feeling.  I have a memory of being overwhelmed by sensation, colors exploding, noises deafening, textures before I touch them.  I'm not floating, definitely still, aware.  My conscious mind seeks for a still place all the while, my unconscious wants to work, eat, live, love, explore.  Just out of reach are the objects I remember, the people I care about, the places I've seen.  I tell my limbs to act, to go there, willing motion but denied a connection between what is real and imagined.  Is it a dream, a sleepless dream?  Or am I dead and is this all there is?  Wasn't there suppose to be more?  I think to some purpose and direction my life needs to be moving towards.  My wandering in the dark, bumping into walls takes more will than the stillness.  Darkness ebbs, light filters in through the loose thread count of my percale universe.  Steady breathing is calming and the denial, while momentary, is far to fleeting to be useful.   My covers descend, the day begins, again.