First Cup of the Day

Sometimes I wake up in the morning ready to do nothing more than crawl back under the covers like a jostled black bear in January. Simply and stubbornly unwilling to stumble around my apartment in search of clothing and toothpaste and contacts and a drink, I do, on occasion, give in to the desire for rest over responsibility. On those days when slumber caused either by true fatigue or laziness drags me slowly back to bed, my imagination stays up, cooing and coddling my mind.

Stories are born in those moments. 

Fragmented phrases and ideas in slivers, a frayed conversation and a weather-beaten setting for adventure or romance or danger and death. Characters woven out of cobwebs in my mind, laced up with a concept, bones built of plot and conclusion.

All of this happens before the tea, of course.

I have a mug, over there on the shelf. The teabag is up in a box behind me. I started the kettle when I started this post, and all three will call my senses back to a lucid reality in just a few more minutes. I do need it, the logic, but I so enjoy this fantastic, hazy fog my mind is in right now. Mornings -- even rainy mornings -- are my most creative time. But I have a very long and critical survey to fill out, so I will steep my tea. 

First cup of the day.