Sometimes I wake up after a
dead-tired night at six in the morning. It would make sense for me to be spiritless
and grumpy, but for some reason I’m not. I’m just up. For a while I ponder
about the reason, the cause of my untimely awakening, but soon I give up. Is it
important? In the eyes of a depth psychologist, maybe. For me, not so much.
What’s more important is what I do
next. Do I get up and get to work? Do I go out for a good morning walk? Do I
stretch and exercise? They all sound like good deeds that I owe to myself, but
of course, I don’t do any of them. This morning I got up and boiled water to
pour over the contents of an unhealthy, sugary instant coffee stick.
I move to my desk and click the
triangle button that starts the music player. Then I slide open the heavy
wooden frame of my ancient window. A squeaky sound follows the motion and
reveals a view over my neighborhood. Standing there, listening to Miles and
sipping coffee-flavoured broth I see drowsy houses soon to be woken up by
the sun.
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