Over my must have first cup of coffee, I performed a file back up of sorts of my previous 10 hours or so. The smell of the coffee and the first few tastes eased me into the process. I think my routine with coffee is more of a procedural part of my day rather than a physical sustenance aspect. The time I spend savoring that first cup allows me to relive anything worth reliving, caste aside that which is forgettable, and remember what I may have promised the upcoming day.
Sunday Morning. Passed out last night around 8:30. Damn. Saturday nights definitely don't pan out like they did 30 years ago. Back then I would only pass out that early on a a Saturday night if I hadn't been to sleep since Thursday night. And that did happen on a semi regular basis.
Ah, the times I love to relive seem to be the ones I would be better off forgetting. The days spent inebriated, stoned, or tripped out stand out in the book of my past. Maybe it's the clarity with which I remember the sober moments that make them less mythical or mysterious. Thus rendering them uninteresting.
The reality of my past though is just the opposite. My best moments, my pinnacles of personal growth and achievement all happened when cold sober. I know this, yet attempting to draw up memories of drunken or drugged debauchery tease me constantly.
So I will not tip my hat to my checkered past in another post. I won't highlight moments best left uncovered. I will just say that it is another Sunday morning and I woke up to enjoy it.
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