Morning
By Hadar Badt
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You were waiting all night long for the morning to come. It will all be better once it's morning,
you told yourself. You stood there, wrapped in your blanket, and stared at the sleeping darkness
through the closed window. The moon tried sending you one of its comforting smiles, reaching out
its soft pale rays, but in vain. It was too far away or was it you, who was too far away?
You could hear the cold dry wind strike the houses, tossing over some trash cans and brushing
against the old willow trees. Distant cries raised from the prairie escaping the town's boundaries,
and echoed in the night. The jackals. You could picture them lurking in the shadows, silently
treading on the harsh ground in their nocturnal efforts to detect prey.
Time stood still that night, mocking you for foolishly believing morning will break; tormenting
you in your agony. You were so used to having time escape you; to having it always one step ahead;
reminding you that all of the other moments comprising your life, consisting of your very essence,
have long deserted you; the memories they left behind clinging on to the fading trail of the
yesterday, refusing to let go. So why did time have to stop all of a sudden? On that night, of all
nights? Forcing you to acknowledge the existence of something you dedicated your entire life to
deny? It wasn't the fear which propelled you to get out of bed that night and stand by the window, as
if it would help you convince the morning to come over earlier than it was due. No. It also wasn't
the sadness blooming comfortably and undisturbed within, feeding on the always-expanding ripples
of past disappointments nor were your untraceable dreams to blame. Yes, the same ones you
efficiently managed to hide from others and now just can't seem to remember where you placed
them.
It was that miserable lie you have been telling yourself for all too long; a lie so articulately
conceived and groomed; a lie so beautiful and alluring; so perfectly and naturally interwoven with
your life, there was no reason to suspect it wasn't the truth. If only you could have believed it
yourself; if only you could have blindly accepted it like the rest of them do. But that night the
severe dark skies spread over the world. You heard them whisper your name and rose to your feet,
unwillingly drawn to their enchanting gloom. And you looked up, and up, and up, searching for
something, even though you didn't know what it was. But not even the smiling moon nor the
twinkling twinkling stars could guide you . So you simply waited, not daring to close your eyes, not
daring indulging the darkness by letting it manipulate you, again. One hour, two hours, five hours
passed, but you didn't let the fatigue get the better of you. And finally, a delicate rosy blush started
coloring the skies. Foggy pinkish clouds hovered silently above the land, carrying the hungry cries
of migrating birds in the horizon. The spreading shades of pink transformed into orange and violet,
gradually fading as the sun rose in all its glory. Morning has finally broken, against all odds. Of
course it did! What foolish notion poisoned you to think otherwise? But you were still there; the lie
was still there. This time you were not spared. The morning has betrayed you. Nothing has changed.
Nothing in your life was real, only the pain. Things did not look brighter, on the contrary. And the
vindictive morning savored your defeat, reminding you its superiority over you; over everything.
Morning. Mourning. Two words almost alike, yet worlds apart; a single, seemingly insignificant
letter, giving them their estranged identity.
People are always afraid of the night, of the dark, when in fact it's the morning they should fear.
For the morning is ruthless, merciless and unforgiving. For the morning lies more than you, fooling
you into believing that the storm has passed; that you are on safe ground; that you are saved.
Photo: Michael Badt, http://www.flickr.com/photos/
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