LJ Idol: Week 9; The Better Half
Some people are morning people, they arise with the sun, refreshed and energized, ready to face the day basking in the soft still quiet air. Some have bodies that decide they are early risers, waking them at dawn and they are resigned to plod on with their day. Many rise early against their will, but are able to make the best of it. Yet I know there are those out there who enjoy that stillness, that quiet, that subtle increase in light and volume as the day slowly comes to life.
I envy these early morning people. I envy their ability to function on a "normal" clock, I envy their viewing of the sunrise, which I have seen just often enough to know what I am missing. I envy the enjoyment of the slow crescendo as life starts to stir, each sound adding to the hum of the day. When I watch the sunset, enjoying it's beauty, I miss the soft golden shine brought by the first light of a new day.
I feel bad for my son. He is one of those awake with the day kinds of people. I am pulled from my sleep to his singing and skipping. He's off, quick as a shot, ready to take on the days lessons. I picture our mornings like one of those scenes in a movie where one person sits motionless as the other runs fast forward through the world. I find myself half slumbering on the couch, eyes bleary and lingering closed more often than open. My ears listening, as if through cotton, to tales of his dreams and the odd ramblings that accompany his active imaginative play. He's used to it, slowing down from time to time for frequent snuggles or to softly awaken me if I have drifted back to dreamland. I realize I am missing out on this amazing creature but find it difficult to join his revelry.
My clock, my internal "day" starts with the sun at it's zenith, full and strong. Noon is a great waking time, life is going full force, the buzz of living so tangible I can almost taste it. No matter what time I pried myself from the warmth of my cozy bed, no matter how many hours I have been blearily moving on with my day, noon is when I "wake up". That first half of my day is spent willing my body to move, my voice to rise, my brain clatters on through thick oatmeal thoughts and I worry about the wisdom of decisions I make in these early hours.
Only after the world has slowed and the diminuendo is complete, leaving only the soft sounds of night in the air, do I reach my peak. Nearing midnight, as others drift off to dreamland, my brain becomes fluid, my thoughts are clear, creativity flows and my body feels energized. This is my time. This is the part of the day when I feel most whole and tangible and able. Left to my own I would stay in this state until only a few hours of night remain and the threat of day break rests upon the horizon. Unfortunately I am forced to cut this awakening short. I reluctantly quiet my mind by immersing myself into a book until finally I lay restless, waiting for sleepiness to find me.
I envy these early morning people. I envy their ability to function on a "normal" clock, I envy their viewing of the sunrise, which I have seen just often enough to know what I am missing. I envy the enjoyment of the slow crescendo as life starts to stir, each sound adding to the hum of the day. When I watch the sunset, enjoying it's beauty, I miss the soft golden shine brought by the first light of a new day.
I feel bad for my son. He is one of those awake with the day kinds of people. I am pulled from my sleep to his singing and skipping. He's off, quick as a shot, ready to take on the days lessons. I picture our mornings like one of those scenes in a movie where one person sits motionless as the other runs fast forward through the world. I find myself half slumbering on the couch, eyes bleary and lingering closed more often than open. My ears listening, as if through cotton, to tales of his dreams and the odd ramblings that accompany his active imaginative play. He's used to it, slowing down from time to time for frequent snuggles or to softly awaken me if I have drifted back to dreamland. I realize I am missing out on this amazing creature but find it difficult to join his revelry.
My clock, my internal "day" starts with the sun at it's zenith, full and strong. Noon is a great waking time, life is going full force, the buzz of living so tangible I can almost taste it. No matter what time I pried myself from the warmth of my cozy bed, no matter how many hours I have been blearily moving on with my day, noon is when I "wake up". That first half of my day is spent willing my body to move, my voice to rise, my brain clatters on through thick oatmeal thoughts and I worry about the wisdom of decisions I make in these early hours.
Only after the world has slowed and the diminuendo is complete, leaving only the soft sounds of night in the air, do I reach my peak. Nearing midnight, as others drift off to dreamland, my brain becomes fluid, my thoughts are clear, creativity flows and my body feels energized. This is my time. This is the part of the day when I feel most whole and tangible and able. Left to my own I would stay in this state until only a few hours of night remain and the threat of day break rests upon the horizon. Unfortunately I am forced to cut this awakening short. I reluctantly quiet my mind by immersing myself into a book until finally I lay restless, waiting for sleepiness to find me.