I don’t know if this is called insomnia or just waking up early. Whatever it is feels awful, and a cheerful bird in the tree outside is not helping matters. It has been merrily singing since 4:20 when I stirred with relief that it wasn’t 5:30 and jotted down the significant parts of a dream I was having.
winding dirty clock, trying to clean its face, tight springs, friend’s name, arrival at Air Bnb
I worked to keep my head in a fuzzy place of sleep while simultaneously staying conscious enough to type keywords into my phone’s notepad. Sometimes I actually succeed. The pounding in my skull warned that this was probably not one of those times and to be prepared.
The bird continued calling for attention as my stomach began chiding me for thinking that eating limited edition pumpkin pie ice cream from the grocery outlet was a good way to deal with yesterday’s difficult feelings.
Just one more spoon of the cinnamon-graham cracker swirl and maybe this will all feel manageable.
It does not work, by the way, and adding a grasshopper cupcake or vodka martini as a chaser is also counter-productive. Trying popcorn as a final late-night comfort measure, while warm and buttery going down just sits there on top of everything laughing. Then it all turns into a dirty clock the needs to be wound but is so tight that its springs are going to pop.
Dear Future Me. Like tomorrow’s me, or rather, today’s . . .
So here I sit in a space where if I were a real, intentional writer, I would be proud to awaken early in the quiet pre-dawn hours getting words out of my head and onto paper or into cyberspace. Instead, I anxiously glance at the bottom right corner of the screen watching the minutes tick away until I really have to wake up and face another day.
The alarm on my wrist buzzes the arrival of morning for real as the coffee pot lets out its final sigh and the smell of coffee fills the air.
Time is ticking. Counting down. Precarious.
So much change is on the horizon. So much is currently happening. So much swirls inside, and I run around chasing it with spoons of creamy, cold deliciousness, rather than making the hard, healthy choices.
I am tired of what feels so hard, which is everything at the moment.
Time has come.
Time to exit my quiet writing space and enter the kitchen where lunches wait to be prepared and coffee waits to be poured, and I wait to see what this day holds.
Good Morning, Friends. For real this time!