That must be what I’m doing. I’m letting my ideas warm up, bubble to the surface, and drop before I can fully grasp them.
My head is hazy, like the wisps of dreams are hanging on, veiling my reality. The morning sun is just a little too bright on my counter top. I look down at my toes.
My head is still heavy. My eyelids are heavy too. I don’t want to get up this early. My thoughts are sporadic, the ideas are fleeting. If I wrote now it would come out a cacophony, a mish-mash of words with no direction.
The coffee maker stops, daring me to get up and pour a steaming cup. I grab my toaster waffles. While they toast, the coffee cools and cinnamon wafts on top of the bitter aroma of dark beans.
You’d think I’m waffling if you read what I would produce in the morning, half-awake. You wouldn’t ‘get’ me unless you were in my head seeing the connections I’m making. I need some syrup.
If the caffeine doesn’t wake me, the sugary syrup will. Or make me fat. One or the other.