Remember the mornings? The mornings that first opened your eyes? And the vision that the night left as it poured gold across the skies?
Remember the hands? The hands that swept across your young brow as your eyelids yawned? That hid your hair behind your ear and stroked your lazy skin awake. Those hands.
Remember the feeling of a new beginning? As you pulled away from each dream, turning to the pleasant uncertainty and hopeful thrill of reality once again.
Is it unfair? That the mornings greet youth with excitement and hope, but greet man with only fear? With dread?
All man can feel is the chill of dawn. The cold misery that meets him every sunrise as each blanket is peeled forth from his listless frame. As he begs those hands, his own burden, to let him lay still, and be lost in the comfort of dreams. He fights for a reason to awaken. For a reason to let excitement and the thrill of reality overwhelm him.
But then he remembers those eyes. Remember those eyes? Those eyes, so pure, that met yours, as you met the world on those still fond mornings?
Those mornings long ago.
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You write so beautifully, and I envy you for it.
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Always,
Ellie Grace
I love this.
ReplyDeleteI tagged you in a post...by the way =)