Morning After

Some people like to wake up early, I just like to stay up until the morning after, when even the early risers are still asleep. The mist curls and cools like silver water threads drifting just above the ground waiting to offer you a moist embrace. The birds sing, the world is fresh, it looks and smells like a fresh page in a new notebook, morning afters. The sun, when I'm lucky, rises and the tangerine golds and umbers, and coral pinks leak onto the horizon as ink on a wet page, while the moon side of the sky stays stubbornly blue and violet.

My greatest fear is lobotomy closely followed by going blind,  loss of sight and loss of mind. What would I do if I could no longer appreciate a flower perfectly? What would I do if I couldn't breathe in everything these mornings have to offer? Thank god for my perfect eyes. Thank god. I can practice colour theory and associate colours with feelings and names. I can use these colours and associations to make paintings. Thank god for my mind. I love my mind, really, I love its dark beauty, it's heroic dichotomy. I love the way that it thinks, most of the time, in a form of poetry. And sometimes on the mornings after I might have seen a friend, and they will have said, they have never heard me speak truly before that day. The morning is past natural sleep, past levels of exhaustion, that's what most people here would say. I know sleep will come eventually, and I will rest, so I am not tired, merely incapable of keeping this voice hidden. This voice in my head babbling beautiful conglomerations of words.

sometimes it comes for days, never leaving, waiting for paper and pen, just waiting to explode. Sometimes I won't let them out to have their fun, then they throw a fit of confusion.