Waking up is one of my favourite parts of the day because everything is a blur. I cannot remember a time when my eyes opened on a new day and were able to see clearly on their own. And I don't miss it. The blur has become comforting. The hazy glow the light that sneaks through the gap between the curtains gives the objects I have chosen to surround myself with makes them appear almost transcendent, as if they are both there and not there simultaneously.
I pad downstairs, avoiding the floor lamp and that one chair that doesn't quite tuck under the dining room table as well as the others, to the kitchen for my morning cup of tea, my cup always in the same place. Reaching for the back door key I unlock it, taking my cup of tea outside to soak in the early morning light, this time avoiding the rock we use to stop the bin from blowing over when it's windy outside and the watering can we have yet to find a better place to put. There is a certain calmness that comes from knowing where things are, even when I cannot see them. It is truly incredible how adaptive we humans can be. I only need to stub my toe once on something before I add it to the map inside my head, there for future reference so I remember to take a half step to the left or to the right next time.
The spindly skeleton branches of the tree that hasn't yet thrown on its green overcoat look feathered at the edges, like they're made of whispers or are waving 'hello, how are you?' at me really quickly. Their deep grey colour splays across the peach hued morning sky like a million and one daytime constellations, or hazy veins. And every morning I look at my own veins as I'm warming my hands on my cup of tea and I am reminded how lucky I am to be here, to be alive and able to see another day. We are made up of memories and moments. And how precious these moments are.
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