Daytona

Waking is slow, reluctant in a rainy cloud cover, the sweet taste of last night still on your brow. A book lies open in the bed next to you, you escape the covers only to find coffee and return, hungrily burying yourself back in the pages. A work day beckons, but you declare I am a writer, and ignore the schedule. Nothing in the material world is so important it cannot wait until tomorrow. Do they not know the whims of the world, do they not know you have to catch the creative waves when they come and nothing is more important than telling stories. The robots take over our waking worlds but the thing they cannot do is feel the pang of unrequited love, carve the fear of unsurmountable challenges, know the relief of spring blooms after a long, cold, dark winter, and as such you will never want for occupation. You just have to figure out how to do it better.

I close the inbox, the to do list, the phone. Make another cup of coffee. Sit staring at the sky, the swirls of imagination beyond, dig your fingers into the ore. Believe that everything is just about to begin.