I should be asleep, I know.
It’s nearly 1 o’clock — way past my bedtime — and I’ve had a truly exhausting week.
The dog is already in Morpheus’ realm, snoring near my desk, urging me to follow suit.
I have no doubt the bed is comfortable, the covers warm and the pillows soft. There’s a Kindle on the nightstand with a virtual bookmark holding my place in a tome I’ve been rereading with pleasure. But I’m not quite ready to climb the stairs, undress and recline.
There’s so much I want to do: boxes to unpack, treats to bake, stories to write, books to read, animals to pet, laundry to do. Yet sleep is the wisest course of action.
Still I hesitate. The work week is done. My errands are complete. Rain is pattering against the windows. I just made a cup of tea, and I’m finally able to breathe.
