Procrastination

I woke up early and treated myself to a cheeky bit of down time with Iain Banks.  I had a day of marking, lesson planning and report writing ahead, but the sun was out and I knew my work ethic would be sorely tested.  
I put my lenses in and felt sorry for myself, as I did every morning, because of my myopia, then I pulled myself up by thinking of the people who start their day putting on prosthetic legs or hands.  
I mused a bit on the futility of the human condition; how we get up and wash and start all over again as if we hadn't done any of that the day before.  Then I pulled myself up again and told myself that people in war torn countries probably appreciate waking up alive.  Or maybe they don't.
This thought threw my head into a pickle and I realised my musings were a delay tactic on the part of my brain. 
I played a game of solitaire, cleaned the kitchen, tidied up the detritus of Bernie Sander's night (why doesn't he just bloody sleep like the rest of us?).  I told myself that, according to Buddha i think?  an uncluttered house is conducive to productivity, cleaning a space and the mind so one can get on with prosaic things like school work.
The hills called loudly though.  Warm days and stormy evenings have made everything bloated and the air honey heavy with hawthorn and acacia.  Mu's craic was how words are like shapes but blur when you try to find them in your head.
She's synesthetic and I'm jealous.