summer morning
[Staying at my grand-parents' house. August in the south of France.]
10:57am, sat on the front patio after breakfast, freshly caffeinated. It was difficult to extract my body from the bed despite the gentle sunrays peaking through the curtains, or maybe because it called for a new day I was not yet ready to be a part of. Then, I tried to anchor myself in some sort of familiarity by watching replays of childhood cartoons on my grandparents' television. Staring at an empty point in space, swaying between the trees and the sky.
Here, in this stillness, the world awaits me to unravel it. I yawn, and it yawns back in my face, sunset-like eyelids closing tight with pleasure. I don't know what language to speak to this world, but maybe I don't need to be understood to follow its rhythm. Sometimes I so desperately want to be left alone that I am rendered breathless, not with anger but with shock, at the world's perseverance. It takes me back in. I cannot say no to it. I am continuously being trapped and freed by its uncertainty and perpetuity. Waking to memorize each fold of the morning light. I want to notice its shadows on the gravel as they appear to me, and let it fade into the afternoon.