If I have absolutely nothing to do, I will wake up early nonetheless. It’s just ingrained in me; I can’t help it. So, I’ll slip out of bed in my fuzzy socks and walk around the house, watching the light filter in. The rays of light dancing on the hardwood floor and the floating dust particles adds a sense of magic to the room, that it too is waking up with me. I’ll just sit in the middle of the room and enjoy the world while it was still mine, before the silence would be disrupted.
Eventually, doors would start opening and shutting, meaning I could turn on the TV and watch Netflix. The volume would stay fairly low, assuming it’s an episode I’ve already seen, so that I could hear the faint popping of the butter square sliding across the skillet. Then, the TV gets muted because my dad will start playing music on his guitar. Even though the silence is pretty much gone at that point, I’ve already fallen in love with how the noise intertwines in harmony: Elisa snoring until 1 p.m., dad singing into the microphone, and the clicks that the kitchen emits every time the stove turns on and off.
From there, I’ll decide to devote my undivided attention to Netflix for the next umpteen hours. Every so often, I’ll stretch my legs by traveling to the fridge, staring at its contents, and returning back to my indented spot on the couch that happens to be equipped with blankets, pillows, and a small dog.
All of a sudden, I’ll realize that it is in fact 10 p.m. despite the fact that I’m pretty sure I only watched a few episodes. So I’ll convince myself that I can only bear to stay awake for one more episode, but the next thing I know is that it’s 2 a.m. By that point, my eyes are struggling to stay open and my hands can’t seem to enter my phone password correctly.
Then, I blink without being able to reopen my eyes for a bit. I could say that’s where the day normally ends, but usually these things happen on a Sunday, meaning that most of it will probably happen yet again.