I like waking to different days. Routine kills me. Too much of the same and I drink vodka earlier each day. Too much making ends meet and I scroll channels long after my family finds peace in sleep and dream, and I end up eating bean and cheese burritos, with the dog next to me, sighing, as she waits for me to put her to bed.
Self-destruction helps, but is rarely prescribed. Sure, I sleep little. Fight to lose the weight. Forget whatever it was I said to or heard from my wife yesterday, the day before, five minutes ago, but it’s cyclical and necessary. My routine for breaking routine.
A late night devoted to slowing the synapses leads to a reset that usually yields a morning of perspective. A new day, like this morning. My brother-in-law with fresh trout. He fished all day, all night, and was willing to share his bounty. His experience.
And as I cut giant fillets into individual portions, I tried to remember being a man in a boat, floating over waves, happy, because I was unaware of the possibilities above and below me.
A modern day Old Man and the Sea.