It’s early.
Too early to pry open my eyes and allow my senses to report back the matter they honestly observe, in an effort to remind me of what I am, and where I am.
For now, I am a shapeless blob.
I am nothing and everything.
I am not an object but a vague sense of existence, of tranquility, of in between.
Not awake, not asleep.
The moment a toe twitches awake, or the moment a breath is taken too deeply, I become something and this peace is disrupted.
Instead I mindfully, carefully allow my thoughts to wander, aimlessly, not entirely determined to catch any particular one to inspect it more closely.
Slowly, this way I start to remember things.
I remember that I am, that I was, that I will be for some time to come, and then one day I will be no more.
I remember that I love, and that I am loved.
I remember that I hurt, often, deeply.
I remember that in compensation, I adore just as brazenly.
I remember I am young, but even so, that time is cruel, callous, and I am not immune to her severity.
I remember that another night has passed.
I remember that it is me who has the choice to open my eyes and acknowledge the early morning sun that bathes my pale skin.
Carefully, with complete cognisance, I give permission to these, mine eyes, that they may fulfil their duty.
As if prompted by an internal switch I have finally given in to, an abundance of splendid minutiae impale me, leaving me breathless.
As if by complete surprise, my nose recognises the warm, caramel-tinted aroma of a cup of coffee being prepared close by, at the same time that my hand feels the familiar texture of bristly fur against my skin.
My ears suddenly receive a symphony of birdsong, a choir of flying performers instructed by a conductor who surely raised his baton for the first time the moment he saw me open my eyes.
My mouth is abruptly filled with a tart, familiar taste of a night spent in silence and in stillness, unpleasant yet intimate, familiar.
My chest rises with a distinguished sound of swift air entering my nose, whistling almost silently as an exhale of breath so simply proves my actuality.
As the minutes pass, the serenity of slumber subsides, and the reality, mundanity, banality of today takes its place.
The thoughts that so freely pranced around the meadow of my conscious before have now started honking in rush hour, each desperate for their resolution.
The skin above my eyes that lay smooth and apathetic until a moment ago, begins to furrow in concern.
I sigh.
I must now begin again.
Another day.
I yearn for tomorrow’s dawn, that I may feel this light again.
I anticipate with longing for the minutes of the next morning, in which I am the truest essence of me.
Untethered, unbothered, unbridled.
