the invisible cookbook

Morning wakes sleepy and drug like. I dream’t about a house the plan was something like another. I had made a garden out the front and it resembled the one here. The dream slips like sand through my waking morning mind and away. A heavy stumble to the kettle and a slow and steady gaze out the open window. The couch is near enough to tempt me back into a horizontal position but I resist. The kettle begins to boil and slowly ever so slowly bit by bit I begin to wake. This precious time, the early morning half dreaming half waking groggy bliss before the day creeps in and with it the anxieties of life. I want to cherish these moments more, pay closer attention, spend more time with them. That is the idea.

Toast gets pushed down then forgotten, then pushed down again, then burnt and forgotten, then finally remembered and eaten slightly black and cold with lukewarm tea that was also forgotten.

This will like any other day, come and then away and like the toast be forgotten. A day lost in a dreamy warmth with no memory to fall on, to live in. There is almost some regret in letting it pass so quietly. My thoughts flitter, they are transient, watched only by a half open and sleepy eye. I am aware that I am not defined by who I am now, I am fleeting and I am constantly and forever changing.

I am in a place that is not quiet yet home. Its slowly nestling its way into my heart but in the meantime I miss the longer shadows that I know will be creeping around down south. I miss those things that are crisp and clear – the breath in white puffs as it escapes off the tongue.

It is this early morning time as well as that exact same moment just before bed that I know is when I am most honest with my thoughts and the way they express themselves on paper. It is this honesty I want more of, to spend more time in. That space like a quiet and small peeping winter.