It was just a few years ago when the cuckoo still sang at my Salt Lake home, and the mornings meant cozy breakfasts and the rush for college. But then one day everything changed.
'To move ahead in life you cannot get stuck at one place.''
That was what everyone was saying. They were perhaps right.
So I moved on and those mornings were forever lost in the abyss of the past. These days I just lie down in my bed and try to sleep through the mornings, I try to dream. Two pillows over my head. Nothing in the world can bother me now.
Nothing in the world bothers me here. No body comes. No body goes. It's so peaceful. If there's a little commotion outside the room I can always turn the music on. Louder. I can always pretend to sleep if someone knocks at my door. I often do that.
Today someone knocked at my door. Who dare invade my mornings? It was always wise not to answer. But the person kept on knocking.
'You have got a post.'
The heart leaped a little. A pregnant yellow envelope greeted me. Inside there was a little book. It was a gift from a writer, whom I found somewhere in my dreams. A little piece of paper fell out. As it touched the floor, the ancient scripture written in turquoise shimmered in the virgin morning light.
'To the boy lost in abstracts.
Let's always create.
With love.'
And on this morning, after many mornings, I remembered how to write again.
'To move ahead in life you cannot get stuck at one place.''
That was what everyone was saying. They were perhaps right.
So I moved on and those mornings were forever lost in the abyss of the past. These days I just lie down in my bed and try to sleep through the mornings, I try to dream. Two pillows over my head. Nothing in the world can bother me now.
Nothing in the world bothers me here. No body comes. No body goes. It's so peaceful. If there's a little commotion outside the room I can always turn the music on. Louder. I can always pretend to sleep if someone knocks at my door. I often do that.
Today someone knocked at my door. Who dare invade my mornings? It was always wise not to answer. But the person kept on knocking.
'You have got a post.'
The heart leaped a little. A pregnant yellow envelope greeted me. Inside there was a little book. It was a gift from a writer, whom I found somewhere in my dreams. A little piece of paper fell out. As it touched the floor, the ancient scripture written in turquoise shimmered in the virgin morning light.
'To the boy lost in abstracts.
Let's always create.
With love.'
And on this morning, after many mornings, I remembered how to write again.
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