How do you feel, as life ebbs back into your body as light filters through the edges of your closed curtains? Do you feel energised, ready to leap forth into the day? Or do you slowly become aware of the necessity of arising, aware of the aches here and there that did not exist before, but have gradually crept upon you as age has? Or perhaps you just feel grateful for having survived another night, or even the slow malaise of dread that yes, here is another day, with the same drudgery, the same quotidian of frustration? Or perhaps you wake, but not fully, not even truly aware that you are still actually tired, but long custom has made you inured to it.
I miss the days where I would literally leap out of bed, fully aware of who and where I was, full of impatient kinesis, with not an idea of how I would spend it. I miss the days where I did not wake with a dull sense of something aching, an almost imperceptible hurt. I miss the days where, if I woke up tired, I would know that I was tired, rather than shrug it off and accept it as one of those things.
Yet still, there are those rare mornings where I wake, blissfully relaxed and with a delicious sense of my body fully reposed, fully aware, then I coil into action and stretch every last muscle and sinew towards the ceiling, and I open the curtains and face the day, full of every possibility, and then I miss the days when this would be every morning.
edit: monday night saw me smoke 5 cigs, and have six single measures of Glenmorangie, 3 of which were in the shape of hot toddies, as my throat was aching like buggery. The other 3 just sent along to join the party.