Mornings
I find that some mornings it would be better to perhaps never have woken up and I think sometimes the reason behind the waking up and the time in which the waking up takes place are oftentimes responsible for the day which will inevitably, sadly follow. In a way, those small seconds before consciousness are a stamp that is pressed onto the potential of the day, a fingerprint or a cookie cutter. As if, maybe, there was a sliver of difference between it starting promptly at 6:48am by means of a noisy trash truck and it starting sweetly, slowly, unfoldingly at say 10:30am by means of a handful of kisses planted firmly on the cheeks, eyes, lips, nose, forhead (in that order). Waking with a reason to be upset will, no doubt, obviously color the day with cloudy clouds and an undercurrent of potentially dangerous waters; one's nerves are already set on edge, one's brain is already set on defensive mode, and one's heart is already desperately trying to make up for the injustices heaved upon the body by the big bad world at large. You, as a person, are already looking for disasters when woken up by a blaring accident. The way in which one combats an intolerable injustice is with just as much negativity --- however it is negativity of a different breed; it is intentional whereas the world's negativity is absolutely unintentional. The world shoots arrows at us all, but blindly. When we shoot back, we have a target very definitely defined and in our sights. It's all recreated revenge on a smaller scale; a means of payback for the debt left for us each bad dawn that already seems to be dim.
In the morning, when most smile or groan upon waking and realizing there's the impending promise or threat of a new day beginning, he hangs his head solemnly and wishes for it to be over. All or none or most or some, just over. A quiet and a peace. A rest and a sleep that is unbroken, unshaken, and due and deserved. Without or with, close or far, this one or that, just so long as it is deserved. And, in the morning, when all great men and sad lovable slumps lump their shoulders in a shrug and the breaking sunlight through a few stray opened blinds starts to blind him, he shuts his eyes in choice and withdraws back to that dark corner where he first started. He'll do it, someone watch, he'll do it, someone watch. He always does it. Closed and close. "Enough," he says as he's had it.
And then
There are mornings, though, those rare and nearly impossible mornings, where one is woken up slowly and with the sweetest of whispers. Perhaps she tosses slightly in her sleep, shrugs off a stray blanket and, in the hazy process of waking the sleeping-body's mechanical parts, her lips smear not against the pillow but against his own shoulderblade. His face blooms slightly, the petals fold back a trifle: smile. He turns, kisses her back, she wakes; they are awake. Hello new good bright sunny morning (even if there are clouds) the lovers shrug and hug and feel snug as they embrace one another and the promise of a good day. Birds sing - sun shines. Was his waking not prompted by an accident again, only of the opposite kind as the priorly discussed one? No matter! He has happiness to thank and his day gets brighter and brighter as he approachs it. And, how does he look at those everyday obstacles that sincerely plague him no matter how he happened to wake up? He dismisses them! He tells them that they will not steal his smile, that they will not ever be permitted to trample upon the loving garden that he has sprouted before himself, that they will not obstruct him further.
Oh, sad sad confusion.
