Reconciliation

It isn't that I dislike the morning. The early hours do hold a kind of cheery optimism with which one can imagine endless possibilities and productivity. The air is freshest in the morning, as if the earth churned out something new overnight. No, it isn't that I do not appreciate the precious quality of each sunrise and new day, it is simply the struggle with with I must contend in order to greet this opportunity that I detest. There is a psychological constraint which binds me to my bed and bids me back to sleep. It is the bridge one must cross before reaching the open, green meadow. I know what lies across this rickety, old thing, but my fear pulls me back. I suppose I have the night to blame for this. Darkness provokes imagination and I often find myself wholeheartedly delving into a tomorrow in which I will rise early and conquer all. Yet when the morrow arrives, I fall prey to whimping out and shutting up and lying still and calling quits and dropping dead. You see, waking up and rising from my bed means facing myself in the mirror. I have to conquer myself. Everyday is a kind of reconciliation with the person peering back at me. I must make amends with every feature and flaw and convince them to behave just for today. I remind them to be restricted here, and subtle there, and to never appear forced. I envy the effortless and I question their tactics. Somehow I successfully persuade myself that it will all become easier and the process more refined. Imagine waking refreshed, and bounding out of bed like an angel, the sheets spreading like wings behind you. You see, I overthink this. You see, it is the night time. Tomorrow shall be the same.