Morning is the time to let thoughts think. That’s the thing about it. I think. Just that.

Because both sleep and wakefulness are something like memories then, single reference and double sense but I don’t have to make any.

Maybe I’ll linger for a while longer in this pallid space of indefinite intersection, instead, fleeting as it is, and also eerie and suppressive and stirring and quiet, where mind doesn’t so much recall as feel and wonder what’s been there and what might be. I like to seem clever and there I am.

There, noiseless, thought sees as much as sight does and knows it’s all the same, barely reaching out because it doesn’t have to, digging in against the day, wishing, hoping, shuffling around in robe and bath slippers and half-absently looking with sleepy eyes at the definiteness of what seems because it is too. Thought does this and I let it.

Distinctions have not yet had time to govern, that’s why it’s all ok—or not not ok—remaining instead to be made right along with meaning, and I can still be as other, anything, anyone, and everyone I can imagine myself to be, all mixed up and whole and incomplete and broken without knowing any of it; remembered and forgotten and lost and here, still speaking for speaking’s sake alone, but softly nevertheless, alone whether anyone hears and whether it sounds too much like somewhere in particular or too little like anywhere at all.

In the morning, early in the morning before the sun begins to rise and before I start to wonder why normal is so painfully, dully, indescribably normal, before day breaks and I again—for survival’s sake, I tell myself, oddly—misidentify the hoax that is this being and doing of ours and come to feel silly for stopping and thinking how strange, how strange, how strange—in the morning I can just wonder, wonder about occasions of beauty and long for more, greedily, wonder about the tenuous balances and thin-strung ties seeming to hold it all together when nothing really is but us, and just wonder why, without bitter cynicism, without the trivializing perversity of ardorless irony, without need of an answer, just why. Without wanting to die because of it.

Because in the morning I still know the truth that it’s all up for grabs and most of it means nothing, but some of it means a whole lot and that’s where I want to stay, forever somehow. In the morning I still have the chance and the choice, we do—morning is chance and choice. In the morning I’m free from what’s been passing me by while I was busy being someone the day before. In the morning I actually believe I can go somewhere else without dying and maybe I will.

Morning is when I’m sorry is for everything and I will is for all the rest undone.

Maybe I will. And then day breaks.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.