I completely lost track of how many one a day blog entries I’d done this year and it turns out it’s 149. Maths has never really been a strong point. Anyway, the count continues with this…
I am not a morning person. Like most of my family, I love my sleep. A few years ago I used to think that sleep was for the weak (and for the week, as the majority of my waking hours seemed to be spent on dancefloors and at gigs from 5pm Friday until 5am Monday) and used to take great pleasure in spending all day in bed and all night awake. I felt like the night was something special, like I was in on a club that only a few lucky people knew about. I dubbed night time the ten hour secret and my friend and I toasted to this on a number of occasions. but nowadays, I love my bed. There seems to be nothing more luxurious than languishing, eyes half closed, letting myself slip and slide down into sleep, feeling that irresistable pull lull me back into a state of bliss.
But recently, I’ve been feeling that old feeling. Like every hour I spend asleep is an hour I spend missing exciting things that could be happening whilst I’m awake. Instead of rolling painfully out of bed at the last second that will feasibly get me ready for work in time and instead of using the snooze button as my morning crutch, I want to start waking up early.
I want to enjoy the morning.
On the rare occasions that I have made it to the gym before work, I’ve felt brilliant all day. Now and again I lay twitching at dawn, itching to get up and write. I want to capture that feeling and bottle it and take a sip of it every day. I feel like there are only a few key hours that I’m really living at the moment and I want to make more of the day.
Days seem to be sliding by so fast at the moment and I need to make more of them.
So, adieu to sleep and good morning, Morning.