Every morning, I fall in love with the sun. I love the way it finds its way into the fine lines of my cheeks, tucking itself into the corners of my pillow, settling there, awake. The light fixes me with its glance, rendering me alive, whole, and glad simply to be.
Isn't it incredible, the way that the morning air quietly washes away the minutes, hours, days that have long since passed? Every dawn is its own divinity, the sun its own sermon, and I am enraptured in its glow. Forgotten are the cares of last evening; my restless head has been misplaced by the surge of warm hues and peach blossom prayer.
The creaks of my bed are put to sleep, shutters shuddering open, agape, ready.
What the mind desires, the morning feels. It sweeps across the green, broadly and with conviction, sinking into moments of elation and of desperation, filling silences with a quiet reassurance of permanence.
The sun touches the ink of my pen, and glows.
Dawn has a hum, an echo, a fresh start, that reverberates along my windowpane, seeps light into the dusty motes of yesterday, and warms to the touch. I sit in wonder, waiting as the morning sun settles into its arc, lifting, revolving, until its glow is within reach. It brightens everything it touches, glittering through the glass and raising hairs on the nape of my neck. As it sweeps across the sitting room, finding purchase in grains of wood and fabric of knit blankets, I think, "The drab of my carpet never looked so beautiful."
The sun is creation embodied, forever begun, the starting point. It needs no inspiration, as that is precisely what it has always been, and will perpetually be.
To discover is to know — let each morning be its own discovery. Let eyes drift along drags of horizon color, let mind wander to the tip of each distant ray. Be consumed; be overwhelmed; be unprepared.
barely-awake morning thoughts. february 2nd, 2016. pen on paper.