Emergence from slumber comes topped with hair fit for nesting birds. Rolling off the mattress onto the wooden floor below sends shocks of cold up from the pads of bare feet. Standing, ignoring the protestations of every inch of now exposed flesh, a naked form marches through the door and towards the bathroom. The best method of adjustment to any situation includes speed and will.
Water as cold as ice hits warm cheeks and flushes them red. Black smears of mascara populate the blue circles just below eyes still brimming with sleep. A solitary index finger comes to bat the black away but the makeup persists.
Without glancing to the cabinet on the left side of the mirror, one makeup pad is withdrawn and swiped over the bags, then the forehead, then the entirety of the visage. Eyes flutter closed, daring the newly conscious mind to sink back into the warm embrace of void. Only the continued reminder of toes against winter floors prevents the acceptance of invitation.
The nest is left untouched. A brush is not an item possessed by the tenants of this home. Finger combing works just as well.
A purple mat is rolled flat from its curled position in the corner of the room. Panties slip up and snug onto a nude frame. Best to energize the body in its primal state. Sun salutations with chest exposed means the tickling chill will give way to a quicker heartbeat, to more blood in the veins.
Twenty minutes and the unpleasant atmosphere is a distant memory. The mat stays unfurled, coffee is fetched and a scarf drapes over still barren shoulders. The human form molds into a chair, withdraws a laptop still paused two minutes before the end of a Youtube vinyasa sequence– Sivasana was never a favorite– clicks away.
Morning patterns turn to habits turn to lifestyle. So preaches the health-gurus and social scientists and psychology experts all studying the same thing. List after list preach of the bounties that come from rigid routine. Best to experiment and self discover.
January 10. Three days in.
Fingers play the keyboard like an instrument, manifesting words onto a virtual page. This is it. That voice locked silently behind blue eyes and pursed lips. The essence of man. Of self.
Questions arise over who the voice is. What is spoken and why it’s said. Reflection settles in, glazes over the gaze. A thousand days of history is revisited, picked over. Origins exist somewhere.
Finding the beginning is difficult.
A personality assembled from the touch of feet to the floor. A character drawn from the prophetic march to the bathroom to the mat to the chair. Routines build persona build understanding.
Twenty-four years of routines.
Still looking for the person behind the glowing white screen. Breathing in and out, digesting morning coffee, digging toes into foam yoga mats. Who is she?
Another day, another existential crisis.
See you tomorrow.