Morning In Winter

I'm sitting by the window before the sun comes up. The sky is dark and I can see the lights outside the homes. The blackness of the air and the brightness of the lights create an interesting scene.

I am alone. I don't know if I wish there was someone else here in this room with me at seven o'clock in the morning. What would I even say to them? I'm not sure I have any conversation in me at this early hour.

I quit drinking coffee but at this moment I miss it. I need a pick me up. I'm not exactly tired or even sleepy, I just want my heart to beat a little faster. I want to feel more alive in this early hour.

There is a turquoise glass vase sitting on the table in front of me. It has an interesting, intricate design. I want to hold that vase, and touch it, I'm not sure why. I want to feel it in my hands. The cold glass against my fingers.

I should be thinking. Maybe deep thoughts, maybe frivolous imaginings. Anything, I should be thinking anything. But there are no 'shoulds.' There is nothing I need to do except stare at the colorful embroidered pillows on the chair in front of me.

Nothing real is coming out of my head. Now the sun has risen but it's a dark overcast sky. The trees look dead outside. It looks as if nothing could possibly be happening in those houses behind mine. Nothing.

It's as if no one can say anything because it's so bland outside. The world looks ugly. Sometimes the world is ugly. This time of year, with the blistering cold, it seems you cannot escape the drudgery.

I yearn for real light from the sun. I long for warmth. Grey days like this remind me of my death. The fact that I'm going to die. Although even death might be a lot prettier than this. It's as if the weather, the sky, is trying to tell me something about emptiness.

There is a freedom in emptiness though. If you have nothing to lose, all of a sudden you are free. It feels as though there is nothing inside me at this moment. And yet oddly, I feel a light sense of joy in the back of my mind.

The mind is mysterious, on the one hand it is telling me that there is nothing out there, on the other hand it looks as if there is beauty hidden in there, somewhere. The grass is green and brown and muddy and there are dead leaves all over it.

The trees look like skeletons of what they were in the summer. There is nothing and everything wrong with this picture. I want to touch that vase again, feel it in my hands. Maybe even hold it close to me. There is nothing more beautiful in this picture than that glass turquoise vase.

I want out, I want a way out of this particular scene. Is this really my life? I know seasons change and the atmosphere changes, but this is so dull I want to scream. I want to yell my name through the backyard.

There is very little you can do about the winter except walk through it.