Greeting the dawn of a new year (at dawn)
(note: I actually composed this mentally some days ago, and it occured just a few days after the new year --- but, really, when do I ever write on a timely schedule?)
As the rain pelted the roof, coming down in torrents, I lay awake in bed, thinking: "I want a lover like this storm. I want him like lightning, striking me --- forcing me to the ground, into mud, into submission. I want to feel thunder, the kind that makes everything its wake tremble, wash over me in waves as he takes me. And I want his touch and kisses like rain, to rinse the dirt away."
I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed with my storm-lover until he grew weary and slept, and I rose to write, inspired by my time with him. (More editing than writing happened, but I find that encouraging, as I am beginning to seriously doubt my commitment to the myriad of writing-projects I have going.)
As dawn approached, I wasn't sure if I had the strength to go forth into the battle of the day ahead of me --- I had a conference with my advisor, tuition payments to make, not to mention a full day of work. The more I worried, the more laden with lead were my eyelids.
I walked to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, purposing to find some way to drink the entire pot before work, but then thought better of it, remembering that lots of caffeine only creates negative energy toward fueling my worry, not positive sustaining energy. Still, a cup would be comforting, and the aroma certainly served to calm me.
I looked outside, at the bare trees silhoeutted in black against the grey light of dawn, and dressed so that I could greet it properly.
The morning was chilly, but not cold, though I wrapped a shawl around myself before I stepped outside. I stood on the balcony, and looking over the rolling hills and trees behind the house, draped in cloth, like a robe, I felt like a queen looking upon her dominion.
The sun stretched her arms as she awoke, raising a hand to touch her brush to the east, trailing soft pinks and oranges across the grey. She glanced over the only trace of my storm, illuminating and invigorating with light and life little globes of water on a spider-web.
I stood there, coffee and cigarette in hand, the picture of disgruntled sleep-deprivation, still feeling clean, sharp, and invigorated. How could I not have wanted to charge headfirst into this day, this year, this life?
As the rain pelted the roof, coming down in torrents, I lay awake in bed, thinking: "I want a lover like this storm. I want him like lightning, striking me --- forcing me to the ground, into mud, into submission. I want to feel thunder, the kind that makes everything its wake tremble, wash over me in waves as he takes me. And I want his touch and kisses like rain, to rinse the dirt away."
I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed with my storm-lover until he grew weary and slept, and I rose to write, inspired by my time with him. (More editing than writing happened, but I find that encouraging, as I am beginning to seriously doubt my commitment to the myriad of writing-projects I have going.)
As dawn approached, I wasn't sure if I had the strength to go forth into the battle of the day ahead of me --- I had a conference with my advisor, tuition payments to make, not to mention a full day of work. The more I worried, the more laden with lead were my eyelids.
I walked to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, purposing to find some way to drink the entire pot before work, but then thought better of it, remembering that lots of caffeine only creates negative energy toward fueling my worry, not positive sustaining energy. Still, a cup would be comforting, and the aroma certainly served to calm me.
I looked outside, at the bare trees silhoeutted in black against the grey light of dawn, and dressed so that I could greet it properly.
The morning was chilly, but not cold, though I wrapped a shawl around myself before I stepped outside. I stood on the balcony, and looking over the rolling hills and trees behind the house, draped in cloth, like a robe, I felt like a queen looking upon her dominion.
The sun stretched her arms as she awoke, raising a hand to touch her brush to the east, trailing soft pinks and oranges across the grey. She glanced over the only trace of my storm, illuminating and invigorating with light and life little globes of water on a spider-web.
I stood there, coffee and cigarette in hand, the picture of disgruntled sleep-deprivation, still feeling clean, sharp, and invigorated. How could I not have wanted to charge headfirst into this day, this year, this life?
posted by Beth | 2:35 AM
1 Comments:
Forceful and then gentle as though according to whim, exciting yet calming, perhaps a bit frightening, occasionally upsetting, but always worth the experience once the last drop is spent... am I talking about thunderstorms or traits of a potentially ideal lover?
I like the style of your writing. I can't wait to read more. :)
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