early morning - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I awake to the steady patter of rain upon my window, droplets yet to scatter the nascent rays of rising sun. The sound brings a calmness to mind, a soothing melody, a natural lullaby. With eyes at rest I feel my centre, live happily within myself for these blessed moments of solitude. I drift on calm seas, aimless as a child on summer vacation, paddling, at ease with the fluidity of time. Soon I return to the moment, the song of the rain becomes as fusion, birds bringing sweet high notes. In my mind's eye I am with them, singing upon the roof tops, filling my lungs with fresh air, watching the world come into focus.
The lights of my bicycle shine as smudged stars, the wintry mist cold upon my skin. As the journey passes, sunlight rouses more colours from their sleepy monochrome and, though the road still has the black look of night, the sky is already more bluish than charcoal. Under the fumes of the morning traffic a tincture of the dawn lingers, like dew upon leaves, a gift of freshness bequeathed anew each day.
I know it's early when there is no light struggling to get past the grime on my blinds. I can hear the drum of rain on window pane and I bring my hand down in a semi-drunken stupor onto my alarm clock. Not that I've been drinking, chance would be a fine thing, but at this time of day my neurones don't fire too well; so it has pretty much has the same effect as half a bottle of whiskey. I can't stand breakfast either. I'm going to regret that by the time the sun is up, but making a sandwich is just beyond the scope of my abilities right now. I grab the gear next to my bed and dress. The other me, the one that exists after 9am thought to put it all right here on my chair so that crack-of-dawn me can cope.
The world is as silent as if it ended in the night. The sun is still resolutely below the horizon and the street is as dark as some old-school black and white movie. As I close my eyes I feel the heady pull of my dreams, beckoning me back to play. Like a little kid at the swings who's been told it's home-time, I turn begrudgingly to the light switch and flick it, immediately the room is bathed in that unnatural electric glow. I should do something about that, get some fancy soft glow bulb, or perhaps just a bedside lamp. But the cool blue strip light was free with the room, along with the rising damp and the cockroaches.
The cafe lies ahead, its royal blue paint glistening in the first golden rays of the day. I can see the rain drops that cling, jewel-like to to the name, "Gloria's." Outside the sidewalk that will bustle in a few short hours is quiet, the concrete oblivious to whether it is midday or midnight. My face smirks upward at the sight of the flower planter to the right, the city has put in new blooms that will give us flashes of sunny yellows and hot pinks through the springtime. If I stop walking right now I can almost hear the heartbeat of the city, quiet, like the ticking of an old Grandfather clock. Though I'm in no hurry I keep walking, the cafe isn't my destination, just a microcosm of happy memories with Ryan. No, it's the train station I'm headed for and a journey north...
Before the day has started for the masses I am already in my kitchen, fully dressed and ready to go. Outside it is as black as night, only by the clock can I tell the difference between the time to sleep and the time to rise. The dawn will come as I walk to the factory, lighting my way first in monochrome and then with subtle hues of colour. I will be at the machines long before the day is bright. I miss the many subtle greens of the trees and the grasses, I long for the multitude of vibrant hues from the city parks, the sky and even passing cars. Under the artificial glow of the street-lamps they are sallow and dull. By the time I leave for home it will be well onto twilight, I can only hope for a sunset, a burnt orange sky to warm my fitful dreams.
I know it's early morning because I can't hear the whir of the machines yet and because my heart is pounding right out of my chest. That's how I wake up every day now, like someone just fired a gun next to my eardrum. Only there's no gun. I got pulled up in the city lottery, but it's not wining money like it was in the twenty first century. Now I have to fight in the arena. Four of us enter, one leaves. If we run they pick someone we love to replace us.
The coolness of the early morning is deceptive; the sun has barely risen and this altitude is always cooler. My destination is low down and deep into the interior, well away from the onshore winds. When I get there the heat of that region will make my kitchen on baking day seem like a friendly warmth instead of the inferno it always is...
Upon the petals sit a hundred beads of water, each one a perfect sphere, brilliant in the morning rays. Each drop sits so lightly, yet together they are enough to cause the bloom to bow toward the earth. So delicate is the flower that even these scatterings of dew are significant. Soon the gentle heat of the morning will send them back to the clouds and the bloom will raise her head, calling to the summer bees.
Early mornings are their own reward. The mountains are silhouettes against a crimson sky and the air smells of the ocean. There is no drone of cars, or the hiss as they move over the rain coated street; there is only the cry of the gulls as they call for the fishing boats to come in. There is something about the dawn that makes each new day such a gift, eases it in gently, unwrapping the world anew. By contrast waking later in the day feels like a rudeness, the sun already high, bright and hot. At this time of day the air is cool and damp, I could go to an all day spa and not be so refreshed, so recharged...
The early morning sun was already well risen and the spring grass shone like it had its own gentle glow from within. The air felt refrigerated, that same coolness combined with moisture Peter always felt when he reached for the coffee cream. Though it was late enough for bright light, it was early enough for the streets to be almost deserted - perfection. Apparently 6:22 am was the sweet-spot.