I wake up early. My alarm has a sticker over it because no one needs such loudness so very early. The sun hasn't risen-
or it has-
and I get up. My head feels full, messy, until I've worked through my tasks to the boiling of the water and have a cup of tea, a cooled face.
And I go back to bed.
I write, curtains open, eyes darting again and again to the day as it breaks-
or continues to break-
as the trees sway and their leafy fingers twirl in ways I don't always notice, don't always spend an extra moment to take in. I feel like I could cry, when I realise how much I miss every. single. moment. My head isn't bowed so often, so completely, as it should be, my attention early on... lax. But I continue.
Words skitter out from my pen and onto the paper before me, the ink thick or thin and interchangable.
Daily. Monthly. Weekly. Hourly.
It stains my fingers and when I look at my hands, along the cracks and curves and lines that make up the flesh I control and contort in ways that always surprise me, red, purple, black, blue ink stains them.
I cherish it.
Sometimes I have a goal. Sometimes I have music. Sometimes I let my goal be decided by my gut, the music be the world awakening around me as I sit in bed and write pages of text that one day I'll edit, reform, discard, rediscover.
All of it is important. All of it is necessary- even when it isn't. Because it makes me happy. It makes me feel alive and real and wholer than I always know how to be.