Whence comes the morning?

Another low late night for me, phantom sleep seems fated not to find me. Much on my weary mind, as slow time passes, and I wile away the wee hours sorting simple past ephemera of my life. Faded photographs that show stolen moments, life captured so fleetingly. So many different places, other times, beautiful people and happy memories.

Whence comes the morning?

I find it so interesting that my mind seems to be a much more orderly and keenly honest with myself when deprived of what it wants, namely ordered sleep, new information and sensory stimulus. There is a certain fragile order that falls and finds gentle hold as the thin hours stretch out towards the darkest before dawn.

Whence comes the morning?

It is often, at this time, that those clear conversations occur between fond friends, daily lovers and met strangers that often impact how we see ourselves and all this whirling bedlam around us. A certain peace and calm to examine the intricacies of the events that transpired. A hush between words and worlds, as soon slumbering heads sink slowly into sleep. A quiet space to reflect and question ourselves without that fear of judgment or threat of harm. It is quiet now, so quiet, and the autumn rain fetchingly falls while out West the thunder rumbles as giant, shaggy dogs roll the wooden potato wagon on.

Whence comes the morning?

In the past few years of this new life, so many pieces have been removed from my life, or at least misplaced, suddenly set aside or paused in motion, to make room and understanding for different places, changing plans and new people. I find myself, missing myself at times. That guy I once was. I am still here, somewhere quietly inside, but the cares and stresses of the world have muted him, silenced that calling for the ever new, the always bright, that overneath of the innertween.

Whence comes the morning?

A languid stretch brings weary happiness to a well worn body that to date has served me well. What will the aging process bring to me? Will I settle into a distinguished, craggy, handsome regality like my Father? Or will my face follow my brothers, and become ever more appealing as life etches her lines on their planes? Like my Mother, whose inner beauty shines ever brighter as more frail and slight she becomes, at least when measured against her men? Only time will tell, but still my face is the one I cannot read. Many times, my eyes catch themselves, and I peer deeply into my depths, looking for something...but what? What do I hope to see there? Who is this boy, this man, this being? They change with the fractal light, green into gold, brown into umber...I still have them Mom! I'm still your big brown eyed boy.

Whence comes the morning?

I have girded myself and prepared for yet a new path. A quiet peace now surrounds where once a turmoil of questions and emotions roiled like water over the churning rocks of cold waters. Each thought falls and moves others, like a rock in a twice tossed upon pond.

Whence comes the morning?

I will be...what I am now becoming. I am the morning.