The Morning Sun

Of all the places in my house to write, this morning I am huddled on the floor beside the space heater. The beds and couches are occupied by children and guests. The chairs in the open spaces are cold. The little heater roars and glows. The wood floor glistens golden as it reflects the bathroom's light, and the beginning of sunrise catches my eye through the window on the other side of a cracked doorway. I am awake with the mystery again.

I am thinking, as usual, about work and money. I am also thinking of life's beauty—which I'm finding right now within all of its uncertainties and the moments between my breaths. My head hurts a little. My throat is scratchy. When I peeked out the bedroom door a few moments ago, my son lifted his head up and smiled. I read magazine articles earlier about first world problems like getting price tags off vases and making flower arrangements. My father met Courtney on Halloween and told her how part of him privately hopes for the collapse of organized society. I like organized society and seek only changes in its structure, not its obliteration. At the same time, I am increasingly more aware of just how bizarre it is that humanity exists at all.

My most recent thoughts about the universe envision it as being like a seed very slowly reaching its maturation into a single flower. The experiences of mankind serve as a filter giving it just exactly the right balance of energy it needs to grow. It will blossom once and then be gone forever. Perhaps, there is nothing more to all our lives than this.

Photo taken in Cabbage Town, Atlanta, GA