Somewhere along the line, I always get off course. I write my to do list. I am full of optimistic expectation at the start of each week. It is Monday, and I am ready to take on all the dreams of the week ahead. This is the moment that I live for, each Sunday.

The sun peeps through the curtains that shade my eyes, fresh and bright. I roll up the curtains and breath in deeply, as my mind plays the tune of the day. Today it is “The Battle Belongs to You,” and I feel ready to greet my Monday friend. Hello!

But my eyes have other plans, they are not so happy at the intrusion of the brightness and they loosen the ties that keep the curtains up. But they cannot escape the light that has coaxed their inertia. Determined they fight for their right to keep shut.

The curtains may have ironed their way to keeping the day at bay, but the mind has begun churning; the gears have cranked up and begun their morning ritual. Chug, chug, chug… to-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list. The eyes still wanting to win the battle, call in the reserves of the deepest parts of the mind. They enlist their military buddies who are in the right vicinity to win, at Hippocampus. At camp Hippocampus, the residents are most focused on avoiding the realities of those on the Frontal lines, so the cahoots begin. To-do-list loses steam as the mind track takes up the lull of quietude. The eyes ecstatic at the foretelling grip of awareness loosens its hold on their unfolding. It seems the battle is won – until I, on the precipice, falling — giving in to enemies of the day, am jolted awake by the front lines. Defeated the curtains open and submit to mornings demands.

With the next order of business in mind, and a greeting, my feet turn aside the clouds that surround the nights shackles. In rote, they set about doing the dance expected of them at such an hour. Shuffling into the bathroom, where the bladder is relieved, teeth are shined, and face is freshened. They then depart to order the clouds, unblind the windows, and shod themselves in anticipation of the work that is to come.

The feet are quite enterprising, but the routine doesn’t require too much direction. They know what they are to do, but sometimes a step is missed, and then the feet are lost. The grove they are used to trodding gets diverted and things get askew. They ask for help. Help us frontal lines, we cannot remember where we are supposed to be because we cannot remember what we forgot. Such is the way of the rigid trekker.

Once they get back on track, thanks to the help of master pc, the morning gets going in full swing. No more protests from the eyes or those in Camp Hippocampus.

I make the coffee; what flavor will it be today? I think Hazelnut sounds good. While sipping on the warm, golden liquid, my body sighs with contentment. I sit in the rising east, basking in the early light, reading. It is my time with God, and the eyes are grateful for being summoned out of hiding.

Ah, this is going to be a good week. The freshest of Mondays. The beginning of a new week, with new possibilities and successes to gain. It’s 8:30 am.

At 1:00 pm. The brain, which has been imparting information since 9:00, is having synaptic meltdown, and the mouth is complaining to the brain, in commiseration, at their perilous overuse. How the body with which it is attached is cruel and has beat them down, they resist the call to continue in the morning’s freshest plans.

Has it really been only five hours ago that we, all of us, were ready to take on everything?

The frontal lines begin working on a strategy: eat something, rest and relax for a bit, regroup, and begin again refreshed.

The parts work together to implement the plan. Food is cooked and eaten. Mindless television is recruited for rest and relaxation. New to-do timing is exacted, and just as the plan is to be set in motion, eyes send a note to Camp Hippocampus requesting reserves. The mind complies and the curtains become heavy, the brain gets swamped in heavy fog, and the strategy is surrendered.

I will get started on my next project after a nap…

45 minutes later, I awaken, groggy. Disillusioned and demotivated, we struggle to extract the life that was so vigorous in its arrival this morning. It is gone.

A new strategy is needed. We will start again tomorrow. Today, we will succumb to the vacuous nature of the mindless endeavor. The vapidity inherent in the creative vacuum of television.

The evening is held hostage by the news of the world, the affairs of those who exist only in two-dimension, and the wonder of those who use their wiles to get what they want in the medium that impresses them. I remain passive, with ‘tomorrow’ lurking in the shadows, while I am witness to the dreams of others.

At 11:00 pm. My feet do their nightly thing, sort of a reverse of their morning thing. I read a bit of some creative genius (This week it is Madeleine L’Engle) and slowly the eyes find their way in control again.

I sleep. I dream. I wake up. I pee. I sleep. I dream. I wake up.

The curtains roll up. It’s Tuesday, a fresh new day! The eyes struggle for repose, the mind struggles for wakefulness, the feet get rolling in a manner they are accustomed to.

To-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list.

Work, Eat, Nap, Watch.

The eyes win again.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

Friday. The weekend!

Ah, no expectations. Free to do as I please. Oh, there are some errands to run, chores to do, easy stuff.

Sunday night. Monday morning, a fresh start. So much to do. A new week ahead… let’s get started