Mornings that slow down time, by letting in a light sunlight, are the best mornings. The sweet coolness while you lay enveloped in your blanket struggling to wake. The sudden rush of the light sunlight turning into a harsh one is the call for an end to the slow morning.
Until that harshness hits your thought, you lie thinking of the dream you dreamt, of the lie you imagined to be real as you wake to the real imagining it to be a lie.
The morning is that thin line between the inhumane rush of the city that reminds you of how serial killers are formed and the minute empathy shown by someone next to you asking how your day went.
The morning is the reminiscing of what happened yesterday and the foreshadowing of what will follow today. A reminder of another day for you to prove your existence in this city and a lull for you to ask if you’re on the right way.
The morning is the reminder that mountains have these mornings extended into their people’s lives, these slow burn days that make their living pleasurable. You can have it too.
But then the morning ends and the lie begins. The harshness is eminent but the morning after is too.