Waking up before the alarm screeches its infernal — albeit necessary — wail has its advantages. The switch from dream to waking was peaceful, as if it were a natural progression. It was still dark outside; there was no need to hurry.
I went down through the not-quite winding stairs, skipping the last three steps by holding on to the wooden pillar at the base and jumping/twisting the rest of the way. The body is bursting with energy because the morning was still mine, no deadlines, no demands, no pressure, no expectations. I could breathe.
Cooking tocino would be too messy, and the tapa is something I have never tried before. The hotdogs, on the other hand, I can leave with the toaster, and that is what I do. I then turned on the TV, amped the sound to something barely audible, played a forgotten worship video of Hillsong United, and went to the bathroom to shave.
I can barely hear the songs, but my heart thumps to its beat just the same. How long has it been since I last jumped and raised my hands like they do?
The toaster dings, signaling that I can now break my fast. I open the ever-present chocolate drink in the ref, partake of some questionable bread (I haven’t been at home much to finish it), and quietly ate the hotdogs at the kitchen counter. I like this quiet. I like this slowness.
I wash the dishes — no use letting laziness mar the cleanliness of the new house. I even mopped the kitchen and swept the floors of the whole ground floor. I then remembered it was a Monday, so I took out the trash where the collectors can get them.
There was no one in the street. I really like this quietness.
I head on back, but before taking my bath, I decided to email my boss the articles I was expected to submit today. It’s 7 in the morning, and bulk of my deliverables are done.
I take a bath, the water gloriously rushing and stripping down the rest of the things in my head. I’m ahead, I’m in no rush, I am fed, and I am praying.
I’m still.
I wish… you were here.

