A Concert Of Thoughts Far Away From Sunday’s Dawn

Sleep eludes me. 

I’ve been up since four in the morning, my stomach and head waging war on me due to an over consumption of Vaca Frita that has left me tasting limes, onions and grease in the form of permanent heartburn. 

It is moments like these where I wish I had become a vegetarian and ignored my Caribbean mojo loving roots.

Outside, my newly resurfaced pool is filling and I’ve also been aware and worried that the water is running and that I don’t want to flood my patio. 

Naturally, my overachieving neurons keep sending me messages and sleep is all but gone because they have invoked the spirits of the insomnia Gods. 

So I write as I wait for dawn to approach Sunday, deliberating whether I should have a cup of coffee or an Alka-Seltzer, thinking of the many things I need to do today, wondering if the heartburn will go away on its own, listening to the hose, looking at a retro picture of my Goddaughter’s friends on Facebook (thinking what a cute couple they make, if only they would figure it out) watching the pool fill (about every ten minutes) and researching activities for my later in the year European adventure. 

It’s a busy thought morning and the dark that surrounds my living room is the perfect setting to have a meeting with my pensive self, the over extended agenda growing with every second that my brain entertains another occurrence. 

I’m an over thinker and in this quiet phase where all that I hear is the faint humming of the running water, I tend to lay out all my thoughts as if they were a buffet separated into stations of deeds, concerns, knowledge, speculation and introspection. 

Of course, all this could simply be lack of sleep coupled with indigestion, but I’d rather believe it is some deep thinking me embarking on a sophisticated journey of personal self-assessment. 

The air-conditioner kicks on, drowning out the sound of the water for just a few minutes and I think I’ve dozed off a bit with my finger on the keyboard because I see a string of repeating ddddddddddddds on the page.  I wake up, clean up the screen and continue writing. 

I definitely need coffee and I need to check on the pool. 

It is still dark and I’m still waiting for dawn. The Vaca Frita heartburn has started speaking to me through the fervent beating of stomach drums (that I now realize were  the culprits who originally invoked the insomnia Gods).

My concert of thoughts to the rhythm of stomach beats continues and apparently this is going to be a lengthy set because my brain is atop the surfboard of adult ADD and it has found a wave to ride. 

(I should get up and check on the pool.)

I’m exhausted. 

Sleep eludes me and in this darkened living room, apparently so does Sunday’s dawn. 



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