My mind is not a blank, but pretends to be so. Nothing wants to think. There is always that little urge to go back, back into the arms of sleep, but every day I win. I can still look forward to brief nods of light nap on the train — once I woke up not too late but too early, confused that perhaps I had reached my destination when I had not. Usually the lurch of the train's halt wakes me up at every stop, and now, I check the signs, always.
Day:
The morning ends and the day begins with coffee. Cups and a cup of coffee. I am not working like those rare few at something I love to do, but I do sometimes delight in my work anyway. Being a software engineer is nothing to sneeze at, I think. Mostly, I feel like it's something I don't mind, that work is an even walk at an even pace (most of the time, sometimes the pace is stressed), bumps in the way to climb over. I am scouting territory that has someone (perhaps I) will till and make grow some crops that are fair for food. It is an acceptable proposition.
Night:
I seem to remember that my evenings had more fire to them. The day is not that much harder, but it is waking up as early as I do — I am still not used to it. I go home and most days, I write, as you see here. It is good therapy, I think. Some days, I am not much good for anything else. But a few days, I can explore the lands of psyche I always wanted to see, scavenging assemblies of imagination to fashion a brand new thing in the world, and I am doing as I should — I am me.
