He woke up that morning. That one morning in early March. Wide awake. At 4:15. Too early, he thought, stretching his left leg and wiggling his fingers. Another day. The sun was not up yet. Another day. Things to do, places to go. He tried to recall what they were. Too early to look at his calendar. Even the phone was still in sleep mode. Machines wake up at the same time. Each day. Why did he always have these weird ideas. Machines. Digital. Always in this bardo state in the morning, when he could not remember this night’s dream, and the day’s stream was not yet whispering against the rock and reed. Or was it? And he could not hear? A new day. She had made him promise. One day. One day, he would wake up early and go with her. Go and see the sun rise. With her. After so many suns had set – and he kept going west – it was time. It was early enough. And late. A dozen years late. Or later? Maybe … And not too late. Maybe … He touched her shoulder. Gently. She knew. They went up on the roof. Still in pyjamas. The sun rose. They both knew. This was day one. New light. A new day. Not a moment too early. Not too late.
Another writing workshop. The prompt was … Well … New life. What did I hear? Well … The audiologist said I don’t need any aids. Yet … But I should let people know that I have a hard time with some consonants. Like eff. And … I did see some beautiful sunrise pictures earlier today.
I guess it took a writing workshop and some pics … I have not done many texts recently.