Some mornings are heralded by a diffident thought of failure and disappointment and a premonition of doom and despair. The worries of the day lay upon us in legions. If today was any indication of what tomorrow is to be, then we wish to never wake up to see it. We close our eyes in deep reflection of the gaping few moments of happiness of our lives, bask in the euphoria of what has once been and finally relapsed into the budding gloom that chokes our life of that one single purpose that defines our existence and make all the cheery moment seem like a past life.
With tears in our eyes and a last prayer for forgiveness for our big and small acts of misgivings, not as an act of fortification for the impending bedlam but a retreating charade of courage and good sportsmanship in a lost field of a no-win plantation of defeat, our heads bow to the pressure of the warm inviting pillow and sleep soon sweep us into oblivion.
No later than that wave of unconsciousness creeps in, a peaceful tranquility, so serene, it is almost heavenly, wipes the worrying lines that is etched on our faces and heart, lifts away that macabre horror of the night, the distasteful taste of disappointment, the terror of a world in the gore of its perversities, of a shattered world of unaccomplished dreams and purpose. We are catapulted into a word of possibilities where the sounds of birds make a deeply resounding melody of the good things to come, where the good always triumph over evil, where a prince charming sweeps our sisters into a love so classic to besmirch the silky fabric of Shakespearean‘s yarn of tale with a touch of impeccability and flawlessness that no mortal could ever hope to achieve in any work of art… not so much like the fairies that inundates our puny fantasies as children but the knowledge that no adult reality disparages a better world than the one we live in.
The reality of our waking moment is trifled by this new discovery that the sonorous chirp of a bird is more than the characteristic catcall of a male bird for a go at his pruning female, and we know. We know that the little angel that smiles gracefully at our act of insufficiency are real and we do know that the ones that pats us on the back for every good deed isn’t just an illusion.
When our dreams goes awry and faceless masquerades is hot after our heels, when we stand at a precipice many feets high and a wave of claustrophobia closes on us, goblets of sweats precipitate like hideous boil from a cantankerous malady. We cry out from our nightmares with a force so strong that every pain, every anguish is dispelled and drowned in that one shrill-sounding voice. Even those sweat beads trickle down our face and makes the betraying heat of our body cooler. Fear grips us by the root and sleep sometimes becomes evasive.
In the quiet of the night, the tick of the clock becomes the only companion that responds as if by some cosmic telepathical knowledge of every thought. Reassuringly, but not condescending, it tells us of the morning to come, of what has to be done. True to its word, the dawn comes, and we know, from the gentle caress of a streaming sun that flickers our eyes open, we know, from the crow of grandma’s cock, we know, by the beauty of the dawn that the horror of the night is a parody of the morning.
“Good morning,” we say, putting every scary tale behind and hoping twilight will bless us with the company of our little angels with the closure of the day.
03:19 hrs 12/05/2004.