Missing My ZZZZ's

There are external stimuli galore to blog about, I suppose, If I'd a mind to, the weather, the always present beauty, the guy on the ladder painting our house trim, but I woke up this morning still tired from a bad night's sleep caused by all the lingering problems of a misspent youth, my achy knee, my moaning back, my hurtful hip and a raging case of ziti inspired heart burn leaving me now more introspective than outer directed. Just give me a moment to snap out of it.

It is a clear, sunny, slightly windy day and Volcan Baru looks as gorgeous and majestic as usual there across the valley. The guy painting the trim and wrapping up other small details from our punch list is named Hugo, silent H, and he's accompanied by his girlfriend who sits and reads religious texts while he works. Woowoo Charly and RTGFKAR are getting after some gardening projects and I've got some floor sanding to get to as soon as I finish this. In other words, a typical day is underway, albeit after a late start. (I didn't get up until nearly nine in an unsuccessful attempt to capture those hours lost in the middle of the night.)

I think I've mentioned before that I now find the quality of life is dependent on a good night's sleep. It wasn't always so. As a younger sot I could burn the candle at both ends and still have plenty of energy to dance in the middle of the day. Not so now, which is probably a good thing as - briefly noted above - I've already done enough damage to this old bod. It serves me well to get a solid eight.

But there I go back inside again. And it's not even funny. The Monkeymind is at a fatigue caused standstill.

Yesterday we learned from long overdue survey results, that most of our driveway is not actually on our property. No one seems to care at the moment as the property we are encroaching on is owned by a couple from India who live there and, we are told, do not plan to build here for years. Nevertheless, when news like this is in your head, ziti sauce is in your chest and your hip/back/knee announces its presence, Macbeth doth murder sleep.

A nap though, just might work.