I know how morning wakes & makes supple its limbs again, how it rubs the worn down nubs of our sleep & enough static to make light enters our eyes & gently like a prehistoric piece of art, we emerge, a listening device.
Without our audience, the birds, the dew, the dim gaze of dawn will never rise. There will be no knowledge of the world, something worth remembering, worth retracing to its roots. In waking, the world knows its history, remembers itself & what it has done to survive.
In these times of men, these biblical times filled with rumors & strange fingers running through our minds, what stories we tell of ourselves cannot be trusted to be true. We make public gestures & demand attention. We lie. But when we open our eyes at dawn, for a brief instant all illusions melt away. The fog dissipates & we stand naked before ourselves & see.
But this is the noise we cannot eat. It corrodes the different fillings through which we have made ourselves heavy & matter. This noise undresses us to the minute details; the fear, lust & penury & this we cannot accept. These base desires cannot be inside us. We are children of God. We are saints waiting for paradise. We have placed our ears near the dark mouth of heaven & heard the angels call our names. This desires are not us.
Yet, in that brief instance, that blink, we know who we truly are. & this, in these times of men, is what the world wakes to, what it gently prises open.
Like a gem, morning glistens, promising a beginning like no other before it. But we have a thousand beginnings, a million burned down endings, and in between it all, mere survival.
Like the world, I must survive that first instance of awareness. For it is only in that moment, before numbness the world injects into us comes, like a babe still wet with its mother's womb, we are innocent & free. After that, judgement.
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