Sleeping Sponged Ceilings

My eyes open, but looking around is pointless.
I'm blind, but only by the
bright sun that beats on my face,
unspoiled by clouds or curtains.
I roll around in protest of the day,
searching as if to find
reasons in the bed sheets
to emerge from my cradle.
perhaps I'll wake for coffee and company
of friends on the patio before school.
Or maybe for the outfit of the day
that i will no longer put the laborous effort into finding.
I'll wake for the breeze that pushes me
through tedious, repetitive walks to a building
where I am required to be lethargic.
Maybe I'll do it for the radio talk show
during my now record-short shower
that has been interrupted by an epiphany of the
relative location of the long hand,
creeping closer to the clock's twelve.
all these occurrences that quote-unquote inspire me
to do the most basic of daily tasks
do not actually make me want to stir,
but rather let the light adjust
and breathe,
staring at the yellow sponged ceiling
as I wonder how many ceilings I can find.
I stand there,
but only to move from there
to find a ceiling.