Morning

Open or closed those windows let in light that’s never quite enough.

The brighter, whiter light from my phone hurts my eyes while I contort irregularly trying to wake myself completely. 5:49, again I am awake minutes before the alarm that is supposed to wake me decides to bawl. A musky smell invades as I close my eyes again, proof of my regular inhabitancy. Maybe it would be harder to pursue the scent if the windows were open, but mosquitoes who emerge from some unknown nursery do not allow that and if it wasn’t for that dust covered fan their provocative hum would be more inescapable.

Grey is what the light seems to be, the meek purple on the walls seem determined to hide taking advantage of the almost non-existent light. A few bright bits of purple and yellowed double sided tape break the monotony of the wall, marking spot where posters were hung. The only poster of the 11 or so that went up ,an A4 sheet with Epicurus’s marble face and famous quote on it, has stayed up for two years while the rest lost a battle against gravity two days after they were pasted on the wall.

The narrow pathway to the washroom is still dark; the sun isn’t up in earnest yet. The rear end of my neighbor’s house blocks any view that the old pathway had. The delicate rusty grill that doesn’t really fence off anything still has the usual oxidized smell about it. If you look closely you can see flecks of black paint that still survive on the red and brown iron.

There are two rusty cockroaches here; they’ve been here for a few days. I did not want to disturbed their peace but I learnt yesterday that decomposing cockroaches are far more dangerous than what you might expect. So they were soon placed outside. The air is pleasantly thin; the large swaying trees seem to be waking up earlier than anyone else on the street. There isn’t much to see with the canine life yet to be awakened by rattling motors. The sky is an odd blue and yellow with shadows graying and seeking shelter. The red flowers and wet leaves grow brighter by the minute.

Inside I try to remember the dreams I dreamt, while a misplaced glowing red towel stands out like a indiscreet stranger at a funeral. The yellowed wrinkly old book I grapple with has three years worth of dreams in them, faithfully recorded with various pens- a different color, a different shade, a different ink in every entry creating a coil of vivid ideas and inscriptions with somber colors. A sleepy hand struggles to make those soothing curves and happy swishes form some coherent, legible alphabets and fails a little more than it succeeds.

The bath water smells like red rust, the water is cool, the food has been ready since yesterday, so are the books, so is lunch. Good mornings and hellos take a minute and I leave, down the brownish tar and grey footpaths to college.

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