Morning Will Come

A song I like,

Always spoke of something which felt so unreal

And yet so blissfully perfect

That I almost forget about the fact that it’ll end in a couple of minutes.

During my morning, I play this song.

I don’t know why.

Impulse, I suppose?

But, you see,

I remember the rests, the quarter notes, the triplets

So well that I don’t even need the sheet music.

I just feel it.

It almost felt like it was the only thing I was capable of understanding.

The only true thing,

I was capable of knowing.

Out in the world, though the sun shines on mostly everything,

Not everything is as clear as day.

I too desire the truth.

I too desire the knowledge which I had long forgotten.

It’s been all lost in memory.

Only faint traces remain, and even they

Are not enough.

In the morning,

Rather than feeling the urge to say, “Yes!” at the very top of my lungs,

So that the whole world could hear me

Or perhaps loud enough for the neighbours to cover their ears,

I’ve only been whispering:

“Maybe.”

I’m sure you know its nature.

For in a “maybe” lies hope

as well as fear.

And most of the time, I believe my soul to be driven by both:

Hope for a brighter morning,

But fear of a sharper light.

Let’s just say,

I don’t know to what extent I’ve written an exposition.