One wakes up

An enormous hand reaches from above and shuffles the colors of the day. And one wakes up to see the lamp post outside one's window and a black bird perched on a cable near it responding automatically to its instinct of being. The day outside is mauve and blue and the light smears onto the frame and one feels lucky because one has awoken comfortably. The tongue touches the palate; one stretches the legs and one feels unready to go outside. In a way, the enjoyment of a beautiful image so early in the morning is a pleasure that anyone with the ability to see has experienced. The absurdity of the very first thought is what amuses one the most; the first word one has thought and that most of the time does not return. Catching the first glimpse of the world in the morning, if one chooses to rest at night, is the most weighty part of one's existence. The shadows aren't sharp, the temperature is low, there is a more relaxed tame world that accepts him, because he hasn't been able to face anyone outside his bedroom. And if one leaps immediately, out of their bed and interrupts this suave method of waking up, one may disrupt in one instant the celestial labor of arranging the world for viewing. He adjusts one's lenses; the world loses its vehemence and his convictions become insecurities. Well, one would hate to be a pessimist and remain the whole day crestfallen, because after all things lose meaning until one is back to his dreams and he wakes up and the possibility is out there. The possibility of love? one fails if that is what one seeks, because the chances for disappointment are greater if love is what one must find. So here one is, in all his individuality trying to plan a way to get there, with or without the hand of God and his beautiful morning paint strokes; and one must find a reason to create something sincerely. After all, one IS God's paintbrush; one paints the sky and smears it with light.