Morning Writing | The Cold October Light

Awaking in the cold October light, nestled under velvet quilt, . The day coos and calls for attention, yet I nuzzle my head in the comfort of my pillow seeking a second night. Or at least another few fleeting seconds of sleep. Sweet sleep. Like hot chocolate poured on marshmallow. 

Shrugging off the comforter that is slumber, I open the cool metal tablet and type what might very well be worthy thoughts but thoughts all the same. I resist the urge to wander the corridors of the internet and stay here to type my prose so that I might articulate a thing or too. 

Here, seated upright on my bed in a chilly stasis, I might strike the tinder in my mind and kindle my meaning, or what I mean to be my meaning. For some mornings, it’s like I’ve forgotten key components and the majority of moments. It’s nice to take a little time to remember, in the early hours, that every day one is invented and re-invented, that it takes work to be consistent, and that humans are flighty, fickle and confused by nature.

I continue to type feeling the sand fall from my eyes and my alertness grow. The rumble in my stomach craves to be heard and the memory of the smell of coffee wafts through the air. 

My baby comes in and does a dance singing about how she made a mistake reading the news before work. She pig piles on top of me, very warm, very cozy. But only for a bit, as she turns to go to work. The heat imprinted upon the embrace cools. Footsteps echo through the house and the front door swings out of and into the door frame. I take a deep breath and dive into the cold October light.