A dark morning. Black as ink, the sun not yet risen. The distant hillside’s lights are beetle lanterns made of lightning bugs.
As I move my pen, one instant peels off from the next in the brightening blue glow of the creeping day, only now just dividing the sky from the still black horizon of trees. Meanwhile, the snow, sleeping shrouded earth, glows violet. Forms and planes gradually emerge from the dark, from the swarm and chaos of dreamland. Not one thing separate from the next. Not yet one house, fence, path that knows itself to be such on its own, what in the way that the daylight will soon cast them into contrast with one another. Meanwhile, out of the mist of my brain I pull thoughts into sentences. One. Then another.
What happens in the morning? We exit strange, seldom uttered fantasies into simple demands: commute to work, email the landlord, purchase a pre-packaged sandwich and make a conference call. Civilization. Upon waking we pull ourselves from the clutches of a warm sea of dreams into the pace of time. 30 minutes now to get ready, grab a granola bar, slab on some makeup, make yourself look like that person you play the world to be. Toss clothes around, undress and dress again, put a smile on, show ‘em what you’re made of. Because in the mornings there’s also, even amid the fuss of putting ones self together, the solace of beginnings. True, people have died in the morning. But perhaps it was their blessing to depart without the weight of the day.
Can you believe that we’re on a planet hurling around in space, rotating in the direction of a fiery orb of light? The day emerges, the hillside separates from the sky and the beetle lanterns burrow into brown earth.