Fragment: A vision of an early morning. [27/11/1996]
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The dawn sun is smiling for just me, the birds, and the milkman, and I'm sitting on a telegraph pole outside my front garden. This is a world in which there is no shouting, no arguments. This is a world in which there is love.
Soon enough Mr Patterson will walk down this road, as he does every morning, but the Lord's. I long to call out to him, to ask him why he's not happy on such a glorious day, but I won't. He wouldn't understand, and would just stand there, letters turning to Autumn leaves about his feet as he stared up at me on my perch.
Back in my room I wonder why I do it. I only wonder to pass the time, since I know exactly why I climb onto that sanitised tree each morning - the dawn, a most glorious gift from the East. Just to be there, with the whole of my world spread about me, and to see the darkness dissolve and fade as Raphael's wings drive away the uncertain darkness. When we are but ashes, the same pattern will still be repeated, by countless stars, spreading the first tendrils of morning daylight onto their orbiting planets. A sobering thought to wake with, but one that has kept me going, and should do for a few years yet.
The thought passes. My mind turns. I have a while before I have to get up for school - time to read, then. Reaching for my current literary illumination, I lose myself in a world of secrets and people who lust after them, each other, and themselves. That familiar knock with its sidekick voice come too soon; I must get up now.
Breakfast is breakfast. What more can I say? A muddled affair of yesterday's exploits, today's hopes, and the juggling of bits of food in between. Maybe if I concentrated more on my mother's words and less on reading the cereal box before me, I'd later today recall what tasks she had set me. Alas, sweet kismet decided otherwise.