Yesterday I woke up just before 6am which is absolutely unholy for me. Oops I did it again. I fell asleep with my sunset lamp still on and my laptop on my bed. I put my eye mask on and tried to go back to sleep, initially to no avail. I went for a wee and all my sleep began to slink away from me. The gears in my brain had started to whir. At the most inappropriate of times, my brain was now ready to provide me with great content and ideas for writing, questions about the universe and lengthy monologues internal about life. I was at a crossroads. Ignore and remain in pursuit of sleep. Or take note before these thoughts would disappear forever, stolen away in the clutches of hazy half-awakeness. I surprised myself and chose the former. I must stress there is not much that can tear me away from sleep.
I reached for my phone. Even on the dimmest setting, the brightness made my eyes hurt. I was feeling more alert by the second. I use the bedtime mode on my phone while I sleep, so I had no notifications and didn’t feel compelled to scroll or exist in the world outside of my notes app.
I so often lose those wisps of ideas that flutter and flirt in front of me due to their inconvenient arrivals, usually when I’m without the means to take note. It felt good to capture it all. Although I wish it wasn’t via a screen. Writing in the dark is hard though. As is writing while lying down. I refused to actually get out of bed and commit to a vertical state of being at 6am. If I used a notebook I’d need to turn a light on. Perhaps I should have left my sunset lamp alone. Maybe its light is the beacon of hope for my writing. And I’m Gatsby?
Naturally, I did end up falling back to sleep. It’s what I wanted after all. The rest of the day became a bit of a daze.
On Wednesday, I was delusional. I walked to the shops and imagined it was actually spring, that summer hadn’t happened and was still ahead waiting for us. I leant hard into the fantasy and wished I could replicate that feeling. I wished I had the power to flick it on like a switch. That feeling when you’re on the cusp of summer and the evenings are long but still chilly. The great expanse of the next few months is laid out ahead for you with no end in sight. You’re obsessing over thoughts of how to spend your days and imagining all the things you’ll get to do. You daydream about new experiences and new people you’ll get to meet. That feeling.
I saw what I assumed to be a man with his dad. The dad walked carefully with a stick, but was still doing one-two football passes in the park with his son. I nearly cried. Witnessing it felt almost too intimate, like I was prying. And yet, it could so easily have been something I walked straight past and took no notice of. Something not to give a second thought to. Watching humans be human when they don’t realise they’re being watched intrigues me. Watching humans be human and find joy in simple pleasures overwhelms me.
On Wednesday, I listened to myself and indulged in saying yes. I went swimming in the lido, savouring the last few enjoyable outdoor swims I’ll have before the weather really turns. It was my first proper swim in nearly 3 weeks. It was gorgeous. Feeling my body move in the water felt magical. Those first few strokes I allowed my arms and legs to act eagerly on muscle memory. I had an urge to lay on the grass after swimming so I did. I planned to read my book but I decided I wouldn’t be able to focus. So I closed my eyes and rested my head in my arms. I took in a big deep inhale of earth. The grass was close enough to my face to tickle my nose. I thought to myself that I could fall asleep like this, beneath the still warm but waning rays of September. Oh it was all so romantic, until I realised there was shit on my leg. I was 65% sure it was bird but I couldn’t be certain. Nature’s cue not to have a nap in the park and to go home and shower instead.
Perhaps on any other day this would have made me angry. I would have huffed and puffed and scrunched my face up with annoyance thinking ‘why ME?’ Isn’t it funny how things that happen to us can be interpreted in a myriad of ways, depending on our perspective and our current mood? The shit on my leg was my sliding doors moment.
On Wednesday, I had the best shower. I vocalised my enjoyment of it throughout with deep sighs of content. I will, perhaps reluctantly, admit I miss the feeling of being cold when the only cure is a long hot shower that can penetrate your skin to your bones. I took it as a good sign that I’m making peace with the transition into autumn. I contemplated getting a whiteboard for the shower so I can easily take notes when inspiration strikes there too.
I was excited all day to make dinner. I made a lentil dal that used to make it all the time and haven’t in years. I hoped it would taste as good as I remember it being. It did. I followed the recipe online to refresh my memory and felt smug to know I’d be able to make it again from memory next time. I shall now be eating it everyday until further notice to make up for lost time.
On Wednesday, nothing could dampen my spark. Not waking up at 5:45am. Not even unidentifiable shit on my leg. Why do some days feel more perfect than others? Perhaps it was all the potent energy from the full moon. Or maybe for some reason on this particular day, mundanity was gift wrapped and repackaged to me as a thing of beauty.
