Sleepy

The lamp is on - the tall one with the fuzzy lampshade. It's a bit redundant because the computer screen is so bright, but there's still something warm and friendly about it. Song for Paris is tugging at nameless emotions in my throat. I don't know if I'm happy or sad. Memories can be like that. Mostly, I'm fighting sleep. There might be a poem up my sleeve, and I'm not ready to wake up at Tomorrow yet.

If I were to sketch the day, what medium would I use? I might use crayons for the morning, which was a refreshing mix of quiet sun and icy wind and cranberry juice with a cheese bagel. Maybe pencil for the scribblings of a mid day essay - 2H for the planning and 3B for the thick font in my book. A watercolor wash for the vague disappointment of winding up far from where I wanted to go. Ballpoint pen for doodling in class and the tight ranks of words that glared up at me from the pages of the text.

But I would save charcoal for right now - for the soft dark which smudges the light so gently on cloudy nights. And I would press hard and make it crumble a bit on the paper, to make the dark so thick you could stick a song in it and the notes would kind of linger like the steam that curls off of hot coffee, which is probably way up there on the list of coziest things. And if I was careful, the whole thing might look a bit like the excellent day that God drew up for me.