I woke up at seven this morning – or actually, that’s a lie. I was still awake at seven this morning and decided to get out of bed. Tired of trying to fall asleep, rather than tired of not sleeping. A little bit of both. I slowly climbed down the wooden ladder that leads up to my tiny attic bedroom. It creaks a little with every step, which I find comforting. Peeking out of one of my windows I found a sleeping world, its foggy breath lingering over the houses, blanketing the harsh cold. Dark and gloomy as it seemed, the sight also brought forth a certain calmness. The street was calm. Quiet. I felt calm. If not for the cold, biting at my feet, I would’ve stood there much longer, unaware of the time passing. I tiptoed down a second flight of stairs into the living room, put the kettle on and found a pair of warm socks to keep my feet from freezing.
Now I’m sat here, at our dining table, trying to get all the things I’ve been procrastinating done. Swirling shapes of steam dance in the air over my mug of milky tea. My eyelids feel heavy and I should probably stop describing these dreamy morning scenes ‘cause they’re slow and surely starting to make me feel drowsy and rosy and sleepy.
•
