My ideal day doesn’t announce itself. It starts quietly, without alarms or obligation pressing its thumb into my chest. Morning light slips through the blinds like it knows better than to be loud. Coffee comes when it comes. No rush. No schedule trying to tame me.
There’s a stretch of time where nothing is required of me except being present. Maybe a few pages read. Maybe a few lines written. Not productivity for show—just the slow, honest work of listening to myself. The kind of work that doesn’t clock in or out.
At some point, the day softens. The world gets smaller. A couch that remembers my weight. A body that finally lets go. A shared silence with a creature who doesn’t need explanations, only warmth. No conversations to manage. No versions of myself to perform.
This is where the day peaks—not in excitement, but in permission. Permission to rest. To be unguarded. To exist without earning it.
If the rest of the day passes like this—unremarkable, steady, unbothered—then it’s perfect. Not because anything spectacular happened, but because nothing demanded I be anything other than human.
And honestly?
That’s more than enough.
Memoirs of Madness 