83: The early morning of Christmas (written Friday 25 December 2015)
You clearly haven’t slept the hours you needed. Such an early wake, waiting for the sun to rise in the sky. You haven’t felt this chilly since winter; the chill bites through you to the bone, exacerbates the ache of your bare, already exhausted, not yet healed legs. Your hair wildly uncombed, not brushed, as much as you’d like to brush it now…it is already light. Sitting in the garden as if something radical, something different will happen this morning, perhaps if and when the sun rises.
For the endeavour of romanticism, for the endeavour of self-satisfaction for the soul, you have paid a few costs with substantial prices. In an attempt to draw out your inner poet, you have, rather, forced it further into the dark recesses of your soul. You’re just sitting in the garden, blissfully unaware and for the first time in a long time, not self-conscious of what is perhaps your haggard and disruptive appearance. All you can think about is the ache in your legs and when you will get to see the sun rise.
You retreated to the top level of the house and observed the rising sun several rungs up on a ladder. After several minutes (perhaps seconds) had passed, you were satisfied with what you saw and you went back to your room, where the quilt still reserved your body heat for you. It was like slipping into a warm bath, except there was no water, only warmth. You still agonise over your legs. When will the worst of the pain lessen, decrease and finally, disappear, as it usually does?
Regret embraces you like an unwelcoming presence. Perhaps you could have picked a different morning to observe the sunrise for your poetic and poetically romantic needs. The early morning of Christmas, however, comes only once a year, and the next time Christmas comes around, you’ll be up early studying, not admiring the sunrise for your new poetic needs. You’ll also be writing poetry in your other notebook, the…which ones, you aren’t sure of yet. No one needs to see your pathetic attempts at writing poetry, but you’d probably show your friends at their request. But it would be such a bother to bring it to school…one does not know when or where a perfectly fantabulous idea will strike, only that one needs to be prepared with the notebook in hand. Surprisingly, your legs stopped writhing in pain and the pain is, well, not necessarily subsiding, but it feels as if it’s stopped being alive. Like movement was its cause for existence. How incredible. Seems like every time this happens, you wish you’d discovered it earlier.
Eyelids droop, you withdraw.