My alarm sounds like a yawn
. At first quiet and grumbling, the throaty buzz stutters. The sound is at first barely distingushable from the groaning, gear-grinding effort to keep the arms turning all night
. The orange back lighting is dim and off-center of the white plastic box with crooked arms and a numbered face that is unassuming but serious
. The clock coughs
, clears its throat and eventually works its way to a rousing holler.
It is Saturday morning and the smell of absolute freedom
is lazily knocking the chord to the blinds against the window frame on its meandering tour of my bedroom and eventually exiting via the window at the top of the bed where my pillows have piled themselves in the night. They look like the were planning an escape
but were foiled by the screen. The air is warm and sunny in that way that only the first warm days of spring can be.
The day is so perfect, so full of possibilities, that I don't want to pull back the sheets and risk breaking the delicate tension of everything that the day might become
. It is a special part of the day after I wake up but before leaving the bed and introducing myself again to the world. No words have been spoken. No one has seen me nor have I been forced to admit the presence of another. The world is still at the hazy edge of my dreams and by continuing those dreams in my half waking epiphany, I can ride out hundreds of the fantastic paths that the day could become. Yes, stay in bed. Roll over
. Pull a pillow out of the window and squeeze it because once the sheets are peeled back and the days begins (once I begin the day) there is no turning back. The day will shed its cocoon of all it could be and fly on its single, though wandering, path.
A little tiny division of the Weekend Sound Track
9am - 11am