Something I wrote in High School. Now that it's October I'm revisiting it.
I woke up this morning, on my favorite day of the week. It was early, I'm always up early. The light from my windows spilled in through the canopies of the tress and let me know that it was time for another day. Its eight, earlier perhaps, none of my friends are going to be awake, I know this well, but I check my phone for comfort, chance, and simply out of habit. I had missed calls from the night before, but nothing I could return now. I ate a quick breakfast and slipped on my old tattered running shoes. I loved the air this morning. It was early October air; crisp, cool, and it makes you feel clean and refreshed when it glides against your skin in the occasional breezes that pass. Then I proceed to do what as done routinely everyday since I discovered the magic and healing powers. I ran. The first two miles I run without music, just the rhythm of the feet I carry and the soft hum of the nature that fills the air, if you just took a moment to listen for it all. Then for the last four miles I listened to John Mayer and Jack Johnson, nothing too fast, or it would change the character of the day, and it was shaping to be a wondrous one. I stop to reflect on the line about whether the world belongs to the poets, or the workers then I brushed it off, and carry on. Sundays are nice, because they are quiet and still. I always get a lot done on days like this. So after making a cup of coffee, I finish up the last of my homework. 11:30, I’m sure my friends are still sleeping. So I grab a book, Northanger Abby, and I sit my deck and read for a little. A crinkling noise fills my ear and I remember how in autumn you can hear the littlest steps that are made because of the crackle of the crisp fallen leaves. I smile. I like that. I closed my book and head inside, my eyes hurt from reading too closely. I took one last look; the infinite blue sky above made me want to stay out a bit longer, but it promised me it would return soon, so I closed my door and proceeded to my room. I’m tired and I have the flu, but my mind is still racing and there are some things I felt I still needed to let go of, or come to terms with. So I do what I’ve always done when things need to be fixed. I fill a cup with some warm water and dip a wide, angled, brush into its lips. As I paint, I paint the things I wish I could say or I wish I could do. In a mixture of purples and red I take away the weight of the situations I don’t want to be in and I blend the days that I wish were dreams with the dreams I wish were days. I paint until I see that there’s an orange glow impending in from the window. It’s sunset. I’m going to sushi with my grandma anytime now. I clean the brushes and unclip my hair. These are the days I love. They are they days when you realize it’s not a workers world in all means, but it belongs to a poet. For a worker can’t see today as productive in any manner. They would laugh at the notion of spending a day beneath the trees or watching the skies change. To a poet however, these days are the pinnacle of life. And each day, like today, I want to spend floating in the world, bumping around bumbling and slow, like a firefly in a summer night, and taking in its worth for as long as I can retain it. These are the days- that describe me.
