mornings are mine

In the morning, nothing has gone wrong yet. The day is pregnant with possibility and if I wish to imagine it as something majestic, than for those few, soft, quiet hours in the morning, it can be. It can exist in a semi translucent state of being and not-being. My morning is the moment before the day arrives but not so much before that it is filled with darkness, with night. The part of morning I have grown very fond of nestles in between dawn and day but is not darkness, not light, not dawn. Instead it is the space in between which darkness bleeds into dawn bleeds into day.