Wake up.
Stay in bed for a while.
Because it’s so soft and warm in bed.
Yesterday was May's first rainy day.
And outside the bed, reality awaits.
Proceed to spend the next thirty minutes meditating. I mean, staring. At the ceiling.
Til I'm inspired to write again.

Realize that I now have half an hour less
to spend getting ready. For what?
Writing. Reluctantly get out of bed
and stretch. Life is good. I have a whole new day to enjoy. Or a whole new day to procrastinate.

Catch sight of my bad hair day
in the mirror and decide that life is not good. Brush hair, slowly and gently at first
but then quickly and harshly as I lose patience (In my imagination) I dont brush my hair, unless I have to leave the house.

Spend several minutes holding a philosophical debate in my head over which is more important for clothing: attractiveness or functionality. Decide that attractiveness is a social construct so functionality wins. Also, functionality is comfier. Pajama is uniform.

Spend five minutes staring into my own eyes in the mirror, trying to figure out if they’re more black or brown, and whether they are more resemble dad's or mom's.

Realize I were being overly optimistic I'd rather log in writco first, than remind myself of today's to-do list and not-to-do list.

"Tita, Let's play!"

Oh I forgot to close the door last night. This kid has invaded my space with his cute candid, innocent inviting way. at the moment.

The decision has been made. I have to play. I will write in between, within the day. I'm stuck. I am under toddler's power.

© UnspokenPoetry