It is Wednesday, and I cannot seem to wake up. Not that it being Wednesday has anything to do with it. I was tired yesterday, too. I actually fell asleep while listening to the radio, fully upright, in a chair. The minutes between 3:30 and 4:00 lost to a vortex of slumber. That is usually a hubster move. Bless his gigantic heart, that handsome fella can sleep anywhere, anytime. I tend to be more of the Goldilocks variety, so it came as quite a surprise to me.
It’s dahlia time in the garden, beautiful dahlias – such marvelously constructed flowers. And August. How is it August already? Maybe I’ve slept for longer than I recall. Maybe I haven’t been awake for a long time. Do you ever feel that way? Or maybe the opposite? Sometimes I wonder if, on those days when I am thoroughly spent by 8:00, and Charlie Rose, no matter how fascinating the guest, seems an impossibility, I’ve been so very awake, so hyper aware that my senses cannot take one more bit of noticing, feeling, smelling and collapse blissfully onto my pillow. Is that it? I wish I knew. I am my own mystery, gentle readers, truly.
Sure, there are things I know about myself, but so much more that I can’t quite put my finger on, so much that keeps me wondering. In some ways I like it, but in others, I just want some answers or a bit of clarity. Maybe an impressionistic painting. Who is going to paint a Van Gogh of my life? A good question to ponder on a sleepy Wednesday.
What question would you like answered?
