Why do we shield ourselves from the morning light?
We’re comfortable, yes, but the light is refreshing. After a long and brutally cold winter the sunlight should be embraced, grabbed for. Instead of letting the rays rip through the sheets.
Sleeping on my stomach was never a habit. It’s uncertain where that practice came from. It works, however.
The static-gelled arm hairs noticeably stick up, stretch. Then it’s my turn to shed the layers and get up, stand up, stretch.
I poked my fingers deep into the bags under my eyes to remove the spiders, which wake me from sleep (momentarily) and hider my sleep, that crawl around under my skin and around my brain. They, the creatures as much of a metaphor as they think they are, antagonize the anxiety that produces a profound amount of curiosity before bed. Staying up past the desired time can only be … be … Where was I going with this?
[Reflection rolls its eyes.]
The bags just hang there, still, now empty and ready to collect whatever should fall into them.
My fingers rub my temples, my brow, my cheeks all before the lower half of the face. The ripples of the prints trip over the stubble, sometimes valiantly enough to shoot up into my eye. (But that hasn’t happened in a while.) The skin moves easily, however, around my mouth. It stretches, but not like “Beetlejuice stretch” when wanting to create some horrific disfigurement. There is no Lydia in my life to scare, so what’s the point.
I simply scare my self. Uh, the view is hideous. And the reflection just takes a step back, and the figure places its hands on its hips and rolls its eyes and makes some movement with its mouth as if its licking its teeth with its tongue — all for the sake of disappointment.
Yet, my fingers still examine my face. The sound of friction is similar to trying to spread hard butter with a plastic knife over cold toast. The knife trips a little bit, and it makes an awful sound, similar to that of Velcro — dissonance to the ears and heavy on the brain.
The water helps a little bit. It’s heated up enough to splash on, apply. Rogue drops bead on my hair before sliding down or jumping to a Geronimo! coaxing.
The water, now steaming, heats up and readies the razor.
The second guessing begins: Should I shave today?
Here we go.
The art is to get enough coverage and buffer so the razor can effectively mow the stubble down. Under the nose and around the lips. The cheeks and jawline. It’s, in a sense, sculpting. After its tidying up the sideburns and evening up where the hair ends on the neck. We may not think of it as precision, but it is. It’s tact. It’s accepting the necessity to get a new razor when your face is cut up and scratched more than a few times.
The skin, pores can breathe.
It’s a little time consuming.
Here we go. Not so much.
I’ll go for a run first.
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald