For me, I write. For my kids, I write. For their stories, I tell.

I like great days. I like occupied days. I like busy days. But today, a day where I can sit on the couch with the warmth beating down upon me, is a much-needed day.

I knew it the moment I awoke. As I was making the bed; pulling the covers and sheets up to their nearly flat and unruffled, untwisted position, how comforting it would feel to climb back in and immerse myself beneath the warmth of the electric blanket.

Yes, it was one of those days. I could barely keep my eyelids open.

I knew I must have dreamt last night. I could remember the still, vivid pictures and details in my head.

Any night is a good night to dream; even better are the mornings to reminisce, especially because the act of doing so (dreaming) rarely happens to me.

I resist such urge (to fall back into slumber).

Indifferently, I resist less and less (these days).

I no longer fight, against my body. 
I listen to my temple; what it needs to survive.

If I need to sleep, I sleep. 

If I need to eat, I eat
If I need to write, I write.

While I lay comfortably upon the surface of the couch, with my dog snuggling upon me, my eyes fall heavier and heavier to the floor. 

I sleep.

Then I write, for me. 

Because it's my story

They will want to hear, someday.