1. You can't stop typing until the time is up (amendment: except to take a sip of coffee).
Morning. I want to love you. I want to embrace you. I want to bound out of bed in the morning, wrap my arms around you and squeeze. I want to wiggle inside your layers and appreciate each one. I want to locate your bliss. I want to understand those people who just wake up happy. Instantly. In the midst of a screaming alarm. In spite of the fact that they have to drag their body from beneath the warm mountain of cotton that cradles them. And despite the fact that they must pry themselves away, finger by finger, from their cuddling loved one. Even before I had a cuddling loved one cuddling beside me, I had a hard time prying myself away from my cuddling pillow. From the piece of perfectly mashed feathers nestled within my arms.
I just don't want to do it. I don't want to leave this space of dreaming and imagining, warmth and silence and force myself, one tip toe at a time, to struggle out of some place safe and comfortable, and onto the chilled wooden floor, harsh and uninviting. I don't want to waver in the face the darkness, deciding whether to punish my eyes with an attack of luminescence--abrasive and jarring in a way I'm not sure you ever get used to, or take my chances with adapting eyes, rubbing my lids in an effort to gaze through the black cloak that engulfs me and fumble around for coffee grinds and cereal.
No. Sometimes, morning, I don't want you to come. You are an uninvited guest and you are often rude when you pound on my door. You steal me away from my night. And as if you weren't bad enough on your own, you arrive on days like today with buckets of water. Pouring rain.
And so as much as I want to love you, sometimes I just can't do it. Some days I just want to reject you and curse you and roll over and sleep. Today was one of those days. Today, I turned to my husband and said, "maybe I should do this at night."
He just shook his head and grinned. "I was thinking the same thing."
As you know, my husband is one of your followers. He loves you. He celebrates you. He greets you every day with really funny, terrible jokes and makes it somewhat possible for me to see the promise in how I might come to like you. He knows I still have some work to do. Maybe I need to build up to this. Or maybe, ending my day with these thoughts will serve me better. They will help me write through the lens of my days, rather than create the lens through which I might try to see my days. And so maybe I'll try that tomorrow. Evening. Night. Darkness. Maybe I can find a crack of light inside of you.
Times up. Good morning.
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