The start of it all. The smell of a fresh day, coming out of the rain. Things curling around things. An expression finding a dawn hurled upon a grey sigh. Twisted, turning, finding words scrambling to get to the surface, but never quite getting there.

Everything twists and everything inverts. Where the stars lie are beyond the visible reach. Beyond what welcomes us into a warm state. Beyond the diminishing of the night. It all fades away and never seems to; it just disappears, and the day comes and the day is here.

People get around, walking here and there. They come into an old space and they fill the space with sound. The sound of their voices, the sound of their shuffling. The sound of their waking up in order to complete a task. To fulfill an obligation. To attend learning, or meetings, or many other things out there that they may need to get involved in. And it continues on.

The morning is young and innocent. It is a child that doesn’t need cradling or comfort. It comes here and it presents itself to you, and to everyone. It removes a veil cast across a vast space, and it looks toward the tomorrow. It learns quickly. It learns rapidly. It was born knowing that it, too shall pass. Its time is limited, and the many people running about, moving in throbbing crowds, moving to wherever they must, do not notice. Change is routine, and this has happened before, and it will happen again.

Rain implies itself. It does not fall, and it hangs there. It hangs in the sky, waiting. Waiting to change the shape of the day, waiting to press into the sides, to confirm, to transfer. To move mood and frame everything with a context, and it comes and goes as it needs.

A fresh day, a young day, and already getting toward an older day. Moving toward that inevitable change, toward what lies ahead. Changing the landscape, passing time, turning and turning as time passes and denotes various shifts. The day is young now, and it grows. It grows and eventually it withers away, and it shares a process it has shared with the night for far longer than we’ll ever know. We can only guess.

The day lives through people, the people live through the day. Everything becomes an exchange and offering, and it is dictated by how the day is and how people interact with it and each other, and every day is the same, but what people get out of it changes. Everything shifts and turns and becomes something new and old from varying perspectives and angles, but right now everything is young. Everything is young and youthful, and youth brings sound and presence and activity. Youth carries upon it a fresh growth, and the gathering of experience, and with the gathering of experience the day will gain its fill and subsume it before it disappears into past, as it always does.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 09:12:02

This one I slowed down on quite a bit. I started thinking about what I was writing and how I was writing it, and that resulted in a mess of words thrown together haphazardly.

Written at work.