by Rhonda J.
The morning just happens to arrive.
There is no sense of the start of something new. There is only a continuing, it’s as though nothing really stopped overnight, it merely shuffled its form so that it could continue.
The alarm sounds, but it takes a while to truly register. The sound is, then the sense, as if the sound must push through a medium of great density before it is understood.
The room is the same as it was the night before. Nothing has changed, which somehow feels like the most noticeable thing.
Rising happens gradually. No choice, but a series of tiny bargaining tactics with time itself-sitting up, waiting, sitting up again.
Light is behaving normally outside, and that is the bizarre part.
The world is continuing as it always has, the way it always will, whether or not anything inside has taken any notice.
A shirt is chosen, neutrally. The routine occurs, lackadaisically. A shirt is put on. Something occurs. Then the rest of it occurs too, mechanically and yet unstoppably.
But still it is morning, it is day, and the day happens anyway.
It is that time, at least, is prepared.
Art by Rhonda J., Mornings
About the Author
Rhonda is a writer, poet, and artist who finds her truest inspiration in nature.