February Mornings.

There’s something addicting about being an early riser. The absoloute serenity and peace that rests around you is something quite rare and special. No hurried shouts over telephone calls or clatter of cutlery as people leave their empty breakfast dishes stacked on the side, regardless of the fact the dishwashers been in the same place for sixteen years. Just the light buzz of the early workers, or returning nurses from their shifts. No need to actually talk to anybody, you’re just there – existing. 

The stillness of a February morning is almost like ice- you tread carefully not wishing to disturb it’s beautifully intricate surface. The sun just begins to peak through the dark blue clouds in a sudden rush of golden glow, echoing onto the frosty ground with promise of a new day. The branches of trees direct the sunlight through leaves and windows, slowly starting to paint the world with a subtle and mellow shade of light. 

I emerge from the double doors, which have been closed, to prevent any cat-sitting-on-your-head-or-miaowing- in-your-ear incidents which there have been plenty of, usually holding my phone or laptop which has remained shut since the last tweet of yesterday. I set them down on the table which, by now, is bathed in the gentle glow that only the first sunlight provides,while I boil water and slice lemons, shuffling around in ridiculously bright and contrasting fluffy socks. I pour oats into a bowl, the dust of them flying out into the open air, trying every day to use the microwave as quietly as possible. My Morning is usually not totally satisfied without  me sprinting towards the microwave while the impending countdown of 5,4,3,2.. blares at me from across the dining room.

 This is what I get up for. The silence as I sit and eat, looking through Twitter, only occasionally interrupted by the prominent shriek of a house sparrow or clatter of my fork as I see they announced the wrong Oscar. 

I live for this precious half hour or so where I am able to sit and be alone, but not lonely. To have no real purpose other than to sit alone and exist. To sit in deep thought every day and wonder how lucky we must be that the sun rises every morning, or that Spiders dont get stuck in their webs. Or that I have an 100% survival rate for everything I’ve encountered in life or the fact that 2020 is a little over two years away. 

And I sit like that, for as long as the day will allow it, before my sisters crash through the doors, arguing over who said they’d wear which hairstyle first, the ear-blitzing Nutri-Bullet is used continuously for the entire next hour and I usually leave laughing at the pure chaos to catch my train. 

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