My hair is sopping wet but I can’t be bothered to leave my bed and dry it. I have to work early in the morning, and should try to get some sleep, but I can’t be bothered. I mean, I’ll be bothered by morning when I wake up with wild kinks and an impossible-to-work-with mane, but for now, I can’t be bothered to move.

Life is busy, hey? I am not sure where half of my world is; they’re all saturated in work and family or school and love … or something between love and much less. And it’s my fault for not keeping up with them all, but it’s so busy.

Busy is such a distraction, and I despise the word for its existence.

More often than not I’ve loved the moon more than I have the sun. And, I love the sun. But there is something sweet and gracious and unassuming about the moon and her glow. Never blinding in her shining, I’m drawn to her like the waves and the birds and the crazy people are.

I’m sure there’s something spiritual about it, but the moon seems like peace in an otherwise dark space. And I think I adore her approach to living because it’s the opposite of busy, of waves or birds or blinding or crazy. She can’t be bothered by all that, and it sounds lovely to me.

By the morning I’ll be busy again. But tonight I’ll sit here peaceful, with sopping wet hair, considerate of the other half of my world. I’ll take the position of can’t be bothered like the moon; sweet, gracious, unassuming, glowing.