I love my Sundays.
I love my early morning rituals and the preparation for the meals I make for the week. I share, which I think is a good thing. I think sharing a meal is one of the kindest things we can do for each other. And I understand that not all people share the same taste.
We don’t all like the same foods. But, I am a fan of the discipline that says I will try anything, three times, once, which makes sense to me.

I might have gone about something wrong, the first few times, and today — well, today I stepped out of my comfort zone. I tried something different from my usual arsenal of weekly recipes, which is not to say that it’s bad or good, — it’s just different.

I was lying down, tired as usual, and looking at the flat white ceiling in the middle of the night. I was thinking about millions of ideas. Of course, none of these ideas were unhelpful to my mission at hand which was to sleep, or at minimum, at least I could relax until my alarm goes off.

I am a creature of thought. I have ideas. I have dreams, or should I say that I aspire because the dreams I have are less the sort that come with sleep and more of the kind that keeps my heart alive — or at least they should.

Nevertheless, these are the things that keep me awake in the middle of the night. I think too much. I dissect the ideas that seem to tangle my thinking and up the voltage of my energy level. But this thing that we call insomnia is something that I have lived with for as long as I can remember.
But that’s okay.
No, really.
It is.

I am not more out of my mind than anyone else is. Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m as crazy as they come. Or maybe the saying is true, that crazy people never know they’re crazy, and more as a side note, stupid people never assume they’re stupid either.
No, they think they’re smart.
Maybe the fact that I have the ability to see means I am smarter than I assume. In which case, maybe I’m not so crazy. Maybe I have needs or maybe I have a heart that broke, or maybe I’m tired, or frustrated, or maybe I’ve tried to put the square peg in the round hole one too many times.

If you want to know, then I suppose I can tell you.

I guess we can enter this one as a note to self.
Am I right?
After all, that’s wat this is, right?
This is a note to self.

The ideas behind my journals and the notes that I used to hide because I was too afraid to tell anyone about this or my secret poems, which I would scribble down, and the intention behind all the little notes and notebooks that hid by my bed were nothing more than a written need to inspire my inner trinity.
My inner trinity is this: me, myself and I.

I often dream about days when I was young or times that were either pivotal or somehow spiritually influential to me. I dream of these moments as if the fold in time was pressed down like the corners in the book of my memory.
I have reoccurring dreams from moments like the time I was in El Paso, on a road, long as anyone could imagine, and driving through the beige view of the desert and the emptiness around the highway.
I remember this trip. I remember the quiet eeriness about watching a long freight train pass by, which seemed unending to me.

I don’t know when or why. And I might not understand how things happen or when the switch takes place. All I know is I am not the same as I was.
I know that I do not see things the same way nor do I feel the same as I did.

I have aged. I have grown. I have moved ahead or I have moved on in some regards and, yes, I have regressed at times. I have gone back to older ways of thinking; only to see that I have outgrown who I was. And more, I have learned that who I was might not have been me in the first place, which is odd to say because who else can I be?
How can anybody be anyone except for themselves?

I want to come home. But first, I have to define what my home is.
I want to feel that feeling as if I have arrived, as if my trip has been so long and tiresome yet, as soon as I hit the door; I instantly forget the pains and strains of my uphill climbs. I can forget about all the infinitely evasive ideas that seem too unfair or too distant, and each time I reach, my goals and my dreams and the object of my love and desire moves to an extent that is just beyond my fingertips.
I can see. I can almost feel.
I just can’t touch.

Today is my day to shut off the world. I put on some music and then I start the process of what I’ll cook for the week.
I do this for more reasons than to feed myself. In fact, I see this as life saving.

I suppose I do this to keep sane or to forget what’s happening. I do this to lose myself in something helpful and nurturing, which means that I allow myself to replace thoughts with action.
And be advised . . .
I start from scratch.

However, and in all fairness, and to be upfront and transparent, I am not a chef.
Not by any means.

It is dawn, early, and yes, I find myself at dawning times.
This is all new as can be, like a fresh breath as I approach uncharted times and the unknown future is about to be reborn, at least in some respects.
This is nothing new or so different. I have not changed so drastically nor has anyone else around me.
No, I have not changed nor improved or reverted back to an old or previously defaulted setting.

I have not regressed or advanced, but more — I have come to an awakening, or perhaps a moment of clarity.

I keep these notes here to keep my sanity. Sometimes, I keep them to remind me of who I was or who I am. Other times, I remind myself that this is all live and on stage. This is a process and this life, unfolding. I keep them to keep my heart intact and to let my soul know that I have not forgotten the light inside of me, and that despite the quarrels or the fights and disagreements, and despite the insults about me or my character or the way I am, the truth is I’m not so bad.
I’m learning.

But . . .
If I only knew then what I know now.