Why is that so?
Only this morning I cried again and if I speak more, surely you will see its logical reason.
Promptly at 6am, my alarm sounded.
It was a lovely, subtly jumpy tune, and I had chosen it so very carefully after deciding that 1) it will not blast me from my sleep 2) it will not lull me back into sleep with dull monotony and 3) I will not get sick of it so soon.
Well that aside, at 6am I was still dreaming.
I can remember that because I certainly recall having the wisps of the amusing dream getting laced by something that does not feel ethereal.
I say that because anything you dream may feel real, but they also always feel untrue.
It's like some small part of you tells you if what you are thinking is really true in real life.
And when you dream, you still know it's not really happening.
So the music starts to play, and even though it's soft and I'm faraway in my dream, it is reaching me and twines around everything and I know it is time to awaken.
And real life sets in and I slowly bring myself to consciousness.
When you open your eyes to darkness after being woken up so kindly, sweetly, it feels perfect.
The darkness feels like it is pregnant with a million possibilities for the day.
And with the warmth of the dream, dying, but still presently pacifying your thoughts of having to face another harsh day, it feels perfect.
The morning is perfect when you so gently awaken.
Then suddenly the door opens and you hear someone fumbling around for the light switch and it's not the one for the lazy night light, it's for the blinding ceiling lamp and when it's lighted up all the beauty of the morning is snatched away; the remnants of whatever dream you have had dies behind your eyelids as the light take over; you are thrown into full consciousness and you realise that yes, yes you live in reality so wake the hell up now.
Thence, if you please, pardon me for weeping for the lost beauty of the morning; the beautiful, innocent morning.
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