Waking to the New World

Sometimes I wake very leisurely. The morning of the vitreous hemorrhage had been like that, a relaxed morning where I did not open my eyes right away. On mornings like that, I sit in bed with closed eyes as sunlight streams on my face from the skylight.
My mind usually starts up faster than my body does, and I often don’t rush the body to catch up. I sir and think of the active to do list and the week’s agenda and the backburner things I could get done.
The morning of the hemorrhage, more than two years ago now, the sudden appearance of flowing darkness that cast a shadow behind my eyelid brought instant sharp focus to my mind.
These days, my mind wanders. I review all the things I could do, all the things I have not gotten done.
I had roughly sketched out a series of closely-linked short stories yet have not written even one. There’s editing to my main novel-length works that I could exercise with. There’S three longer short stories I could work towards completion. The cycle of submissions to editors never ends.
The stonewash treatment to the hallway next door had remain incomplete for ages. Other things at the properties need tweaking or improving. The yard needs attention, and there’s always a mound of neglected paperwork on my desk.
The seasonal or occasional jobs around the house are also typically neglected. I think of the elderly, incompetent neighbor I had helped a few years back. I had redone her floors because I did not think the state would let her back into her home if the splits and corroded areas posed tripping hazards. Within a few months, layers of dust and dirt crept out from the walls, anywhere her housecoat did not sweep, and I wonder if my floors look like that.
So I will wake and keep my eyes closed and think of everything I could do and should do and have let slide for so long. I start to chide myself for being so lazy and wonder why I’ve let myself get like that and stay like that for so long.
Then, ready for a manic-depressive push of activity for the day, I open my eyes and remember why. The room won’t come into focus through hazes of fog and light. The doorframes are jagged with edges that will probably never be sharply defined again. I move slowly and must stop at both the top and the bottom of the stairs to make sure I have the footing right. At certain times of day that change seasonably, I need to stop when blasts of sunlight strobe my eyes with sharp contrasts that require "unreasonable" focus readjustment times.
I realize that I haven’t let my hidden lazy streak win. There’s so many things I could do, but not very well by my own standards. There’s things I just can’t do.
The rest is just so damn difficult.