Walking up Is Hard to Do

Every morning, sometime between 6:30AM and 10:00AM, a miracle happens: I open my eyes, usually not for the first time that morning, sometimes for the fifth or sixth, and I struggle once again against the impossible weight of sleep. I fight off the nausea that threatens at the mere thought of lifting my head at the pillow and I look up at the clock-- the one shaped like a monkey-- and I stare long and hard at the time. In the few seconds that this takes an inner battle of epic proportions takes place-- my own personal Armageddon, and against a crushing wave of self pity already pressing me back down into the soft mattress, I throw of my covers and swing my feet onto the floor. I am awake. I'm up.

It's late now and I'll have to be on a 7AM train to Los Angeles. I have work to be done before the morning. Work that I care little about, but it must be done all the same. I have too many promises to get work more accomplished this week than I have time for and this now is work of another sort that I do care about, care deeply about, and I am worried that I do not know how to do it best, that I will not get it done and that, above all else, will leave me wondering who I am against who I hope to be. My home is a mess, I've got bills to pay and budgets to balance to chores and shopping to do and I haven't seen or talked to my friends and family nearly enough. All this on my mind at a time when I would rather be lying in bed and daydreaming. I am overwhelmed, but I am happy. I've got things to think about.