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I love the gold of the morning, those scintillating flecks of light peppering the ever-changing canvas of the night sky, as the latter slowly fades from view; mystical dew-filled cobwebs dotting the grass for reasons unbeknownst to me; birds’ cheery songs greeting the world, welcoming the dawn; the sensation that everything is new and fresh, has been rebirthed overnight–and yet, I dread the raw truth of day, the sharp wind slicing my thoughts to pieces, intimating that I am not enough; the clock on the wall ticking away the minutes, rhythmically chanting that I have wasted my days; the brooding thoughts that creep in, carrying the baggage of yesteryear, a lifetime ago.

I live all of these thoughts in the space of a few seconds–and reflect, at last, on how divine is this, the textured quilt of human emotion and experience. The swelling wave of emotion crests and washes onto shore: a new day has arrived. I exhale the past and inhale the present, and thank God for the opportunity to put pen to paper. I don’t know why, but writing is a therapeutic release.