Morning song
29th November 2000, 0531 hrs
Location: my room
In the vase: a yellow rose with pink edges
Weather: hard to say
Soundtrack: The Kings' Singers, Good Vibrations
t's half-past five in the morning. I'm sitting in my room, in the dark, typing this entry. There's
no light save that of my computer screen, the orange and green indicator lights of the air-conditioner, and the faint,
diffuse light of streetlamps filtering through the translucent white blinds drawn across my window. No sound except for the
Kings' Singers on my CD player, and the constant soft whisper of cold air, and the faint tap-tapping of my fingers on the
keyboard.
I don't do this a lot, as you can guess. Which is a pity, really, given that this is my favourite time of day: dawn and pre-dawn, when everything's still and lovely and silent; the time when you gaze out the window at the lights in the block next door, and wonder about the other people just waking up; when you watch the lights come on in bedrooms and bathrooms and kitchens, and you know it's another day.
The first birdcall of the morning! Oh, lovely, lovely, herald of the world's rising.
It's sad that these days I'm normally very fast asleep at this hour; I never was a one for waking up in the mornings. But I think I've been sleeping rather too much these days, and so I've decided to go without sleep for one night just to watch the morning like I used to do.
Like I used to do...
A memory stirs. Of another room, smaller than this one, though like it in its clutter and basic simplicity. Of other mornings. Of another air-conditioner, and another CD player, and the familiar creak of another door-handle.
And a table, and the musty smell of a cupboard missing one door.
And a memory of someone else, sitting there, in the darkness and silence; watching with me for the light to fade up through the little high windows, listening with me for the sound of a door, and singing, and voices outside. A love for once and for always.
Hmm getting cryptic here. A dog barking, in the distance; probably at the newspaper man. But to whom it may concern: I still remember.
Thank you.