The validity of a physical retching sensation in response to life and all things it entails.
There are days, many more these days than acceptable, when I lay awake in bed overhearing the tiresome morning sounds of a geriatric household.
The deaf one is shouting at the lost one; he simply stares back, a stoic sculpture of incomprehension.
The authoritarian know-it-all is being himself, snubbing even the lizard under the dining table with derision.
It’s dark. Lovely cool darkness.
It’s early. Too early for me.
I am awake, my late-night long forgotten, sleep has slouched away not once complaining of insufficient attention. I want her back. Back in my blanket. As I try to shove my face down into my pillow within the darkness of my blanket, I want her to kiss my eyes back to peaceful oblivion. But she won’t hear of it. She is gone, long gone. I will myself to switch off instead.
In and out.
A throbbing thought loops around my mindspace like a news ticker—I wish I were dead—it’s on repeat. Along with its monotonous drone, unawares to my senses, there is a rising discomfort; now in my throat. I wake up to the realisation that on early mornings like this one, life makes me want to puke.
I don’t mean puke metaphorically or metaphysically. I don’t mean it in a shouting-from-atop-my-literary-high-horse sort of way. I mean the physical response of throwing up when met with highly disagreeable content.
That can’t be normal. Or maybe I just like slow, peaceful mornings. And I don’t remember the last one.
You dawned on my horizon
following my darkest hour;
your simple smile lit up my face too
as you peacefully cleared up my sky
Swept away the darkness,
planted those happy clouds,
beckoned chirpy birds,
all with your wisened calm.
I would call you my sun
but where I come from,
the sun isn’t always kind;
too hot at times and unforgiving.
You are my morning
A pleasant time for fresh starts.
As her lips form my name, calling out to me through the thick darkness of my sleep, I sense her doting tenor.
I would, even if I were dead.
As she comes close and wedges herself perfectly into the nick of my curled up self, I babble random nothings that she alone can decipher. I snuggle closer, wrapping my warmth around her in search of hers. Smiling that compassionate smile, she breaths in my scent, gently kissing me back to silence. There I stay in that supremely pleasurable lull between wakefulness and sleep, listening to her call me ridiculous endearments. She opens out my left palm and kisses it awake narrating for the millionth time how my soft palm was what she loved the most about me when she saw me first.
Even as I realise that I am smiling a peaceful, sleepy smile at being admired I can feel myself shift to accommodate her. As she settles down, gently gliding her right arm under my neck, her body evolving effortlessly to match my posture, I burrow into her bosom searching feverishly for the safety of a long-lost innocence. As we lay there in the clinging wraps of the early morning, all I know is her illimitable love.
As I savour in the knowledge of being truly loved, I wish to be framed for eternity in this moment, a moment of true happiness, a daily moment of being woken up by Amma.