(no subject)
because sometimes I write.
the sun comes up like the tide coming in. the light plays at my curtains, receding, fading, only to come back stronger, more sure of itself. the first drops of rain hit the roof of the winter garden, softly at first, then more insistent, as if they refuse to let me go back to sleep. I ignore them and roll over, hugging my blankets close, hoping to recapture the dream that is crumbling away as I awaken. the first clap of thunder makes me jump, followed by the soothing sound of more rain against the windows.
I am awake.
I lay there, trying to remember the dream--if I cannot go back, I will at least commit it to memory. but it is already too far gone for me to keep. thunder again. softer this time. my curtain lights up yellow, radiating with a sudden warmth. I hear a last rumble, far away, barely audible.
I can sleep again.
the sun comes up like the tide coming in. the light plays at my curtains, receding, fading, only to come back stronger, more sure of itself. the first drops of rain hit the roof of the winter garden, softly at first, then more insistent, as if they refuse to let me go back to sleep. I ignore them and roll over, hugging my blankets close, hoping to recapture the dream that is crumbling away as I awaken. the first clap of thunder makes me jump, followed by the soothing sound of more rain against the windows.
I am awake.
I lay there, trying to remember the dream--if I cannot go back, I will at least commit it to memory. but it is already too far gone for me to keep. thunder again. softer this time. my curtain lights up yellow, radiating with a sudden warmth. I hear a last rumble, far away, barely audible.
I can sleep again.