The Bill Collector

Thoughts

The sun arrives like a bill collector, tapping a golden coin against the windowpane, demanding the debt of daylight. My mind is a small, frantic switchboard operator, plugging wires into every “should” and “must,” shouting that the world might stop spinning if my feet don’t hit the floor before the coffee pot starts hissing. This frantic manufacturing of urgency, a factory sitting in your chest, pressing “ASAP” into every crevice of the ribs.

Resistance is holy. To stay under the duvet is to tell the ego that the trophy room can be less full for another hour. Rest is required far more than the identity needs the hollow clink of yet another task checked off the endless to-do list.

I love my sleeping bag. A nylon cocoon where the only boundary that matters is between skin and cold air. It feels like a secret kept from the timepiece. Outside, the ghost of a campfire smells like apple wood and woodsmoke, reminding me that the most beautiful things we build will turn to ash. Eventually.

A healthy glow doesn’t come from a checklist. It’s the aftermath of mornings that refuse to be managed. It’s not the pirouettes performed for an invisible audience. Not in the hand mirror, begging for a tally of every new wrinkle.

Big breaks are mythological things sold by people who do not breathe. The real breakthrough is in the heavy, delicious weight of your limbs. The way your pillow holds your head like a precious thought. The tasks calling in the hallway can wait. They don’t have a heartbeat, but you do.

So stay in the stillness. Let accomplishment be the way the light catches the dust filtering through the blinds because it has nowhere else to be. Sleep in.

XO