Musings from a whispering heart that loves to tell its secrets
In the quiet hours of the morning, having not yet gone to sleep and my eyes pleasantly burning from reading for too many hours, when I'm naked and alone in my warm dark room with just touches of sunlight reaching in around the corner of my curtains and the fan a forgettable drone in the distance, when I touch my soft covers and dark wood of my bed absent-mindedly and breathe into the pillows full and relieved I know that this is my favorite time of the day, of all my days.
When I'm honestly and completely alone with the world and revel in the silence and the serenity. The sound of my own voice harsh and jarring and unwillingly bringing me back to myself so that I forget to use it on purpose. Feeling utterly free of cares for anyone but myself and not experiencing remorse but a smug satisfaction at the fact: the freedom to run away with telling a soul, the freedom not to worry about money or love or betrayal or responsibility or the future. The freedom to become anonymous and just wander, taking what I choose, reading until my eyes close from weariness, and not being true to anyone except myself, being in debt to no one.
I look around at my possessions in the hazy forgiving darkness and surrender myself to the wondrous physicality of the world, which comforts me unconditionally, asking nothing in return. And I think to myself how I wish I could be like this always, in this half-world of sanctuary where I know all I need to and want for nothing. And I think with sadness how heaven could never measure up to this, because I feel nothing of God here, just my own resilient presence, assuring me that safety is always there in the warmth of my almost black room that cradles me with its merciful oblivion.