I woke up well before I normally do today, willing myself to stay in bed and lie still, listening to the fan whir back and forth, the puff of air it creates just reaching me. I watched the brightness on the walls created by the streetlight outside slowly fade as the dark sky made its way toward morning, but grew bored after a while and decided to get up.
I used to think this scenario presented the perfect time to write, grabbing on to whatever was in my mind and making more of it than it might have been, had I left it there unbothered. But today, I climbed the stairs to stand next to the open window, listening to the crickets, taking note of the first driver speeding through the greyness, a bird just beginning to chirp its good mornings and sounding a bit rusty.
I used to love to walk in the dark, and as much as I think I’d still enjoy the intense quiet of a morning just before the sun rises, I’m wary of what’s out there. It’s an excuse that keeps me inside and promising myself the rest of the day that I’ll go out for a walk. Later.
A quick glance at the clock just now lets me know I’ve still not been out and it’s nearly 2pm.
Another day has flown by while I’ve been lost in my head thinking of much, accomplishing little.
But there are words written here. Maybe they’re evidence of a first step toward a desperately needed routine.
Walking, writing, or both?
Paper, scissors, rock.
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