Good Morning.

Day 7: Write a scene of what your mornings are like from when you wake up. Write it in second person.

Light creeps in between the cracks in your eyelids. Someone who watched you sleep once told you they never fully close. Maybe that's why you remember your dreams.

 

It's either too early or too late. Your alarm is useless. You lie in the jumbled mess of duvet and blanket and read the messages you received when you were asleep. You toss your phone on the floor and lie with your arm hanging off the bed until it tingles and numbs like a dead limb.

Five more minutes.

You pout at the floor. You can feel the Sudocrem on your spots oiling. 

Oh, just wait til the hour now.

You want to wash it off. When will it get better?
 

Ok. Getting up.

You shake your floppy arm with the other and search for your pills. Take two with water and make sure the one doesn't get lodged in your throat by swallowing a chunk of bread if necessary. Then, breakfast. Depending on the day, breakfast can be the most boring meal of the day, or the most delicious. Usually it's cornflakes. 

This Morning or Friends with your cornflakes. A bit of planning for the blog, checking social media. Any new job listings? Nope.

About an hour later you boil the kettle for your coffee and slice some bread for a peanut butter and banana sandwich. The toaster is in the shed so it's usually too much effort to get it out and plug it in to make toast. You make a plan for the day. Shower in a bit - no set time - look for jobs, read, make a salad for lunch, go for a run. Wait for everyone else to come home.

You should be grateful, you know. You don't have a horrible boss, you're not in hospital, you're not paying rent. Imagine the amount of people who would revel in a day like yours. Just the morning off, in fact. 

You make a plan for Christmas. Three months, less than one hundred days. You'll never have this much time to think again.