“What is productivity?” I thought to myself as I put in my contacts after being awake for 3 hours.
I’ve been shaken into consciousness during the drifting end of sad dreams for three nights in a row. I have this candle next to my bed that I frantically light so that I can write down my dreams in really bad handwriting before I close my eyes again.
I never actually make it back towards sleep.
This morning by 8am I had made mango green tea, completed sun salutations, taken a portrait of how the sun paints my front door orange, made sweet potato hash for breakfast, recorded poems in voice memos to send to several friends, watched the sun rise, written not only the version of love letters that I do send to him, but also the version of love letters that I keep to myself.
“What is productivity?” I asked myself, fighting the feeling that I hadn’t done anything “useful” or checked anything off my to-do list. I received a response back about one of my recorded poem voice memos. “This is my favorite one yet. It’s so simply executed by you, so deceptively subtle. I love it, I’m going to let it inspire me to write this morning.”
I pull the covers over my bare legs and watch the sky work quietly to paint itself another color as day breaks. As it does every day without record or restraint.