A Benadryl bound morning. Grog should be my middle name. A cocktail of weighted eyes and a muddled mind. I should receive a reward for even lifting my head from the pillow.
Whatever happened to bright and chipper?
10:30 p.m. my time. Of course my time may be your time too. But all in all it's everyone's time.
What if we stopped counting time? The hours, the minutes, the seconds. What if we only kept track of the mornings that we got up, and marked that off as a day? Better yet, what if we didn't keep track at all? What if we measured our life by when we got out of bed and said to ourselves its good enough?
I got out of bed. This is now officially the 6th day out of a hundred. I missed putting this up last night. And being obsessed and possessed, it wasn't good enough. I'm not good enough. And so it begins.