Mother Willow stood on the river bank dangling her fingers in the crystal clear water. Suddenly she heard the moaning groaning sound of someone in terrible pain. She knew immediately it was a man. He was the only living species capable of self-inflicted suffering. She inspected this particular specimen, which had plopped down next to her, trying to discern the cause of his distress. There were no signs of blood sucker bites. He hadn’t been blown over by a gust of wind, nor burned by a blistering sun. No, it was as she had expected, he was fine.
I wake up wondering why I woke up. I wake up clasping the edges of a rapidly dissipating dream. I wake up wondering, ‘Wait, am I supposed to be worried,’ as a flash of unfounded fear permeates my body. Morning.
Tweet, says a little bird. Tweet, he joyously announces the birth of a new day despite the fact that we are still deeply buried in night’s darkness. How do you know, dear bird ? How can you be so bold ? Then there is a chirp, a cheep, a twitter, a tweet. The dawn chorus cracks night open to let in the day’s light. Do birds ever awake in fear and doubt ? Do they ever worry that morning won’t come about ?
I get up and go down, get up, go down, get up, go down. Everyday I get up out of bed and go down to the kitchen. Life is in the stairs. I get up and go down, get up and go down and in the blur between bed and breakfast I see my entire life is here in the winding stairs. Here is all there is for me because I can never be where I’m going nor wherever I was.