It is nine a.m.

It is nine A.M. for the moment as I sit here. I slept well last night, and it is surprising to me. Sleep has so long been a foe that I am not sure what to make of this new development. It makes me wary, but nothing too bad has occurred yet.

It is nine A.M. as I sit here, but two minutes have passed already. It is nine A.M. because the light is a silky fog outside my window, and the light source is reversed from the location of the sun, making my room a dreamy, bluish revocation of the day. It is nine A.M. because at nine-thirty I'll have to shower and get dressed.

Why is it that I can find some small, strange, truncated rhythm only when I am at the least possible place to make use of it? Like this day, these words, and I are all settled together in an orb of morning.

Things always seem to settle nicely into the appropriate, gentle tides when I can least use them. There is nothing tangible in the way that the little letters tick off in front of me, but their assumed textures and tastes turn bitter around the bend of my tongue after the tip deems them delightful. And even though I sit here at command of them, the words work themselves in mysterious clicking motions. Their assonance, and alliterations, et al, come of their own will and I am not aware until the sentence has been made manifest, and separated itself from my fingertips.

This all sounds massively self-indulgent, and I apologize. I wonder if that is what the entire edifice of this has become. Am I writing to you for my own benefit? Am I writing to myself? I force myself through it, that is sure.

So I wonder, when did my writing here become less of a message, less of a way to expose the fragile, underdeveloped lines, and when did it transform into a steady pushing of meta-cognitive, self-centered flotsam?

I am embarrassed that I snore, I am embarrassed that my body has hair, I am embarrassed that I only have hackneyed clauses to try to entertain you, and I fear that you will see through the curtain one day, and note the broken levers, cracked gauges, and weathered knobs that control the dilapidated visage of Oz. No, not Oz. Not even Ozymandias.

Just a speck of thought. Just a morning's momentary missive in your eyes for a few brief seconds before you move on, as you must; the waters are swift today, as always.

It is nine-thirty A.M.