Morning arrives unexpectedly early, my waking moment filled with an anxiety whose presence I had long since forgot. Solitude obligated or self-imposed is inclined to settle upon the soul with the heavy consequence of the sand funneling through the thinnest segment of an egg timer, relentless in its inviolate progress being sealed in a vessel of such cunning construct its predestined result remains unalterable cept through violent interruption or more gentle realignment.
I am not inclined quite yet to smash the glass, some vague desire to keep a check on time still remains, although the purpose of a seeming endless count confuses the human mind, genetically designed as it for astute and balanced decision making based upon probability rather illusory gossamer possibilities.
The blinds at my window soon commence to haunt me, on one hand begging to be raised in dramatic fashion exposing the majesty of the day, on the other remain lowered to avoid mine eyes finding that world I am forbid to interface. Inconsiderately the light manages to permeate, delicate strands of brightness unerringly daring me to join the reel.
Though we now live in a largely electronic world, more for sentimentality than anything else I still retain two mechanical wall clocks, one placed high above mt front door for a last reassuring glance before sliding through, the second again wall mounted but this time in a rather delightful long case, aside my bed. This springtime, for some inexplicable reason I could not be asked to manually adjust them to allow for daylight savings time, a snap decision I now wholeheartedly commiserate. Time has taken on a particularly mysterious form of late, day, night, morn, evening all suddenly become terms relevant on the exterior, not within our internalized new state of elasticity.
From the comfort of my armed occasional chair, utilized more often than not as my desk chair, I am able to look through the open doorway to the deserted wonders beyond. Momentarily I am struck by how vivid is the green moss that encrusts so elegantly the leaning lilac bush just beyond my porch. I have mentioned before on occasion that very particular vert, a shade surprisingly common here on my chosen isle but more generally to be seen only within deep glens, hidden valleys, muted forest interiors and stream banks but partially dried form recent soaking.
An open door can quickly become a passage to magical wonders beyond touch or even reach.