It was a normal spring day. Life was mundane as the norm, and as such the sun came up lackadaisically with no motivation, climbing upon it's throne with a slow stride. The clouds, in meter with that of the sun, strode by his throne at a snail's crawl. How gracefully, if I may say, can such a lazy event envoke emotion and vigor within an artist's eyes. The lack of kinetic energy, at least to the common man, that a sun appears to have can still set the stage for a romantic display of love, or a relaxing day coming to a close, or a start. The sun had reached it's apex for the morning, perched upon a mountain for the 7 AM rustle-and-bustle. Sunlight beamed through the windows of every house, and it sounded its visual alarm. Light bounced from each corner of a room, and it eradicated the moonlight and shadow that had since then overstayed its vacancy. The internal bell rang within the townsfolk, and as such they arose, seldom thinking of themselves, rather, their work that must be done.
My head, rested upon a grand invention known as the pillow, turned to the sunlight. My eyes, crisp from a well-rested night of twisting and turning like a dancer whom had innocently housed a cramp in their leg, twitched as they tried to open to view such a daily spectacle. It had interrupted a dream that had me falling to my doom, so the thanks must be given to the science that occurs as the earth spins around the sun to awaken me from such a nightmare. Abeit the nightmare, however, interrupting a time of rest is rather rude in modern standards, and as such, is considered an intrusion of one's privacy for the most part. I mustered up some strength that had been garnered from my slumber and fired profanities towards the sun through the window. Alas, the sun has no ears, however my neighbor had been an in earshot of the cursing, and had slated it off as simply being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and proceeded to move on. I then looked up the ceiling. Oh, what a white ceiling I had, with its plaster shielding me from possible rainfall intruders. Yet, it also symbolizes the day to come, be it exciting or mundane.
I shan't curse at it today.
And then the morning arrow pierces the brain of every arising individual; escaping comfort. There are three struggles of the morning, the mind, the body, the blanket. Am I willing to get up? Can my body follow through with what my brain desires? Why is this blanket so heavy? All questions that pop into ones mind, some sort of internal soliloquy bombards you in the ante meridiem. The mind plots out the possible events for the day, the body hears the plot, and then the mind sees how the body reacts to it. Both had reached an agreement to get up, so thus the sequence must begin, in order to begin the day. I extend my hand outward onto the bed, the other hand follows suit, and as such with the force in my arms my torso gravitates upward. If one were to look behind them as this activity is being proceeded, one may see a million souls of bedbugs and demons jump out from your back and frolic away to the next slumbering abode, yet this is rare. Now that the arms have done as desired, the legs shall then grab onto the edge of the bed, and proceed to glissade onto the floor. The trial begins to see if the entire body is willing to continue, and thankfully for a lack of better words I stood up, then slouched. I looked outside, and saw nature doing the same. A dog stretched its legs out and proceeded to wander about our neighbor's backyard. A bird began to sing the same song again and again in preparation for the songs that must be sung later on in the day. And as I arose, the sun had done the same. The sun looked down and spoke to me. He said, with a groggy voice, "Oh Jesus Christ mornings are terrible." And I replied, "I suppose, yet they're necessary to have a wonderful day." "Well stuff brother."
And yonder the window lay nature and man coinciding, sharing the same daily event that will go on until the end of time.
