On tomorrow morning
Tomorrow morning I am going to get up early. Around seven. Not for service, this year, but for class - the first difference. For breakfast I will have a muffin and milk and a cookie, instead of cereal. I won't eat my breakfast while staring out the window at a dumpster. I'll put in contacts, actually be able to see things. I already know what I'm going to wear.
I will walk to class tomorrow morning, if I am not late. That'll be the same.
I am anticipating an amazingly fun weekend with my family. That is also the same.
A year ago this night I can't remember what I was doing. Packing, probably - unnecessary, in the end. It's thunderstorming now. I don't remember if it was, then. But I definitely remember a year ago tomorrow morning.
I do remember that last year I couldn't sleep, despite my exhaustion. And I was endlessly frustrated with myself, still awake at 2 am when I knew I had to get up at seven. I wish there was more I could do. Overall. But there's only me to notice or know, here, now, today and tomorrow morning.
I remember when 24 was my favorite and most luckiest number. I forget a lot, and often say it still is.
A year ago this night I'm sure I thought about the one week remaining until I turned 21. Tonight I know there is only one week until I am no longer 21, but I am not thinking about it. All my thoughts dwell on what I will do tomorrow morning. What might happen. How easy it is to wake up not knowing that by the end of the day the whole world could be different.
In the name of all that is good and right in the world, let there be no phone calls tomorrow morning.
I will walk to class tomorrow morning, if I am not late. That'll be the same.
I am anticipating an amazingly fun weekend with my family. That is also the same.
A year ago this night I can't remember what I was doing. Packing, probably - unnecessary, in the end. It's thunderstorming now. I don't remember if it was, then. But I definitely remember a year ago tomorrow morning.
I do remember that last year I couldn't sleep, despite my exhaustion. And I was endlessly frustrated with myself, still awake at 2 am when I knew I had to get up at seven. I wish there was more I could do. Overall. But there's only me to notice or know, here, now, today and tomorrow morning.
I remember when 24 was my favorite and most luckiest number. I forget a lot, and often say it still is.
A year ago this night I'm sure I thought about the one week remaining until I turned 21. Tonight I know there is only one week until I am no longer 21, but I am not thinking about it. All my thoughts dwell on what I will do tomorrow morning. What might happen. How easy it is to wake up not knowing that by the end of the day the whole world could be different.
In the name of all that is good and right in the world, let there be no phone calls tomorrow morning.