I have rekindled my love for sleeping late. It’s since been easy to find me by seven: in a fetal position tucked under thick sheets or, most of the time, stretched supinely on my back. For the first time in a long time I’ve found it most conducive for doing nothing or talking to someone, without the tears.
All but three pages of the red notebook I have torn: two years worth of writing which I am fortunate not to remember. Although, I have managed to keep my hate for waiting for the morning, still like to keep the lights off.
But, this is how I know the pain wasnt as sharp as it was once, twice, too many times.