[ WP ] You wake up staring into a pair of eyes , your own .

There ’ s always a point, right when you wake up from a deep sleep, where the last cobwebs of a dream can cling to your mind, manifesting in reality like a lingering shadow. It ’ s happened to everyone I ’ m sure. A man standing in the corner of your room, a cat that you ’ ve never owned curling itself up by your feet. They all seem so vivid for a moment until they vanish with a rub of the eyes. 
 
 But I had been rubbing my eyes for five minutes now and I was quickly finding it to be a wholly ineffective method. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I rubbed, my mind seemed to stubbornly insist that what I saw before me, what was lying in the bed directly in front of me, was…myself. 
 
 Of course, once I finally accepted what I was looking at, the conclusion became fairly obvious. They always talked about them in shows or books and it was clear I was having one now: an out of body experience. A man, at the moment of death, looks down to see his lifeless body below as he floats upward to heaven. Well, I didn ’ t seem to be floating anywhere but as I held a transparent hand over my face the evidence was beginning to stack up that I was very clearly, very profoundly, not alive. Of course, it was at this point, when I was beginning to accept my life as a wandering specter, that my body decided it had quite a different idea about the current state of things. 
 
 As I watched with disbelief and a complete lack of understanding, my body rose out of bed, rubbed its eyes ( I could have warned him to not waste his time but I had apparently lost the ability to speak along with my tangible self ), and made his way to the bathroom. I tried to decide if I had become some sort of zombie, but honestly, at this point in the morning, it was hard to tell the difference. The cold dead eyes, the lumbering gait, the low moaning: all normal behavior for a man out of bed without his coffee. I walked behind it, this thing that looked like me, as it went through the morning routine. Toilet. Teeth. Shower. Coffee. Paper. Nothing seemed different. It seemed, contrary to everything that was happening to me today, completely normal. 
 
 I don ’ t think anything could have disturbed me more. 
 
 It wasn ’ t until we got to work that I began to understand. As my body began to interact with other people, it became apparent what was wrong, what was making me feel so uneasy. What I was looking at was too normal, too perfectly on routine. My answers to anyone were short and generic, just enough to keep the conversation going without contributing to anything whatsoever. I worked at my desk until lunch, I ate a plain sandwich in my cubicle, and worked again until I went home, where I slept until the next day. I was completely and utterly robotic. 
 
 And as I watched myself perform the same tasks over and over again day after day, it became chillingly clear that no one was ever going to notice. 

