Sun-drop cup
A cup of coffee from the the warmer is never as good as the first drip. I had moved through most of the previous day's motions without its aid, but found myself improved today with rugged strength. My stomach was warm with destiled caffine and steel-cut oats warmed by safe radition exiciting water molecules from soy milk. It made me feel balanced for the ballet of a day.
It was a sunny day in winter, a season thus far removed from its bitter coldness but not it's cloudiness. I was moved from my bed in the middle of the sun's rise, and could see the light piercing my linnen curtains in pure white. There was no company to share the blissful peace with, except for my own notions of the bourgeious in isolation. I hardly entertained the fancy as of late, with my lifestyle having shifted to something equivilant to that of a vampire, but I wanted to share the day's offerings. I never thought I'd say this anymore; I wish I could spend the day in a friend's company, and only in night sleep softly until the morning comes.
Time shifts in a relative way that meant little to me anymore, until the rising sun moves most out into the world where work is made. Myself, the sleepy and lazy brute consumed by information and analysis, found my reasoning of intelect in a detached voice absent of accomplishment. No wonder then that my the rampant insecurity of the masses could only scoff at the impotent freak ranting and raving towards them in sharp tones about responsibility and being realistic; they wanted revolution now, if only to get them through the day. Yes, the day was upon me, but I seized it for myself.
I often stay in my sitting room, wondering aloud over forgotten blues guitar pickings, why I can't simply take what I want out of life. What holding me back, besides myself, could be blamed for the wretched evenings where I excuse my indulgence. Only today am I prepared to admit my desire for instant gratification that so many see as life's only persuit might be enough to get me through this day as well. The little pleasures of a fresh coffee cup, or a balcony to bask in the sunlight reading, consume me in waves of pleasure forgotten. A magazine article about expression is accompanied by the scattered sounds of the world moving along through its day, and I sit behind sunglasses. These little sensory stimulous fill me with satisfaction seemingly impossible in the futility of night, when the world locks themselves inside from the outside world.
I could not be dormant today, though a picnic would be a difficult affair to arrange. Nay, I stand up to the day and walk out of my door knowing the possibility begins afresh each waking time. Hope and disapointment may ensue, but only because of the expectations raised in spirit and illuminated only by the sunlight. At the end of the day I can say with reasonable assuredness that I had made something of those possibilities if only for having tried.
It was a sunny day in winter, a season thus far removed from its bitter coldness but not it's cloudiness. I was moved from my bed in the middle of the sun's rise, and could see the light piercing my linnen curtains in pure white. There was no company to share the blissful peace with, except for my own notions of the bourgeious in isolation. I hardly entertained the fancy as of late, with my lifestyle having shifted to something equivilant to that of a vampire, but I wanted to share the day's offerings. I never thought I'd say this anymore; I wish I could spend the day in a friend's company, and only in night sleep softly until the morning comes.
Time shifts in a relative way that meant little to me anymore, until the rising sun moves most out into the world where work is made. Myself, the sleepy and lazy brute consumed by information and analysis, found my reasoning of intelect in a detached voice absent of accomplishment. No wonder then that my the rampant insecurity of the masses could only scoff at the impotent freak ranting and raving towards them in sharp tones about responsibility and being realistic; they wanted revolution now, if only to get them through the day. Yes, the day was upon me, but I seized it for myself.
I often stay in my sitting room, wondering aloud over forgotten blues guitar pickings, why I can't simply take what I want out of life. What holding me back, besides myself, could be blamed for the wretched evenings where I excuse my indulgence. Only today am I prepared to admit my desire for instant gratification that so many see as life's only persuit might be enough to get me through this day as well. The little pleasures of a fresh coffee cup, or a balcony to bask in the sunlight reading, consume me in waves of pleasure forgotten. A magazine article about expression is accompanied by the scattered sounds of the world moving along through its day, and I sit behind sunglasses. These little sensory stimulous fill me with satisfaction seemingly impossible in the futility of night, when the world locks themselves inside from the outside world.
I could not be dormant today, though a picnic would be a difficult affair to arrange. Nay, I stand up to the day and walk out of my door knowing the possibility begins afresh each waking time. Hope and disapointment may ensue, but only because of the expectations raised in spirit and illuminated only by the sunlight. At the end of the day I can say with reasonable assuredness that I had made something of those possibilities if only for having tried.