La Brea

Q had recently extolled the virtues of writing early in the morning, saying things like "your mind is clearer then, uncluttered," but I still have my doubts. I got to sleep early last night, something I'd wanted to do because I wasn't feeling well. I believed the extra sleep I'd get would lead me down the path of speedy recovery, banishing my infirmity to the land of the lost. To some bubbling tar pit. I actually do feel a bit better this morning, but it's too early to know for sure - I need a more representative sample size.

I'd forgotten how nice the quiet of Saturday morning is. It is a time that feels surreptitious and stolen. It is a time usually used for heavy slumber, to shake off the persistent echo of a long night or catch up on the sleep you'd been robbed of during the workweek. From outside my window not a car passes. In the distance I can hear the sound of birds that await the rising sun.

Soon, though, the sidewalks and streets will be populated by passerbys. The orange glow of dawn will cast a soft dreamy light on the library across the road, making it look like a giant creamsicle; its many glass windows transformed into large flakes of bright shimmering ice. A casual look outside confirms this has already begun.

I remember times when Alex and I would wake up early to capture these under-appreciated hours of Saturday morning. With a few gently whispered words we'd make our way to my roof to watch the sun come up. Peering out over the city she'd quietly sigh and smile, stretching out like a cat in the warm light. Then the sun would shine into her green eyes and I'd take her in my arms as we stood there against the morning breeze, her skin lightly covered in goosebumps. There was no need to talk, we were both thinking the same thing. The quiet communion we shared with the rising sun is something I won't soon forget. We'd briefly be able to convince ourselves of our levitation, our transcendence over time and language. There was something magical about the sunrise and its beholding. It made the day feel familiar, more accessible. More assailable. Malleable. As if it were ready to serve us. And often, it did.

"The purpose of life, after all, is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences."

Eleanor Roosevelt