Wake up. Wake up……

The morning call of the cicadas creep slowly into his consciousness, as he stirs in his soft bed, one foot in slumberland and the other in reality. The morning was already half done, but he was in little hurry. Life in paradise is slow and idle, and indolence is commended, not shunned like in the city where he was born. Despite lacking the modern creature comforts of air-conditioning and stereo waking music at the flick of a switch away, and the fact that is was getting pretty warm as the sun begins to oven up the day, he was enough unto himself. One does not need much in life to be enough, which is of course contrary to modernity’s concept of happiness through a vicious, never-ending consumption of materialism. He knows though, and constantly seeks to counter his burdened upbringing through awareness of such thoughts. Yes, and such musing on the simple joy of the feel of a worn-out rough bedsheet wrapped around an equally old but tender mattress, is perhaps his one greatest past-time. 

Bit by bit, he wakes, and feeling every nuance of motion in his neck, arms and waist, he sits up on the edge of his bed, head drooped down with eyes closed, savouring the initial grogginess that signal he waking of the senses. Mind slightly spinning, eyes feeling puffy, he heaves up the peculiarly heavy morning weight of his body, and wanders softly to the balcony. Oh, how weird it feels to come alive everyday from the immense stillness of death-like slumber every night. So often it bypasses one’s consciousness that Life finds us back in flesh and blood every waking morning, and that Life prefers its daily possession of the body in degrees so small and slow that it strains the patience of the modern mind. Most people seldom have the savourful romantic affairs with Life, desiring instead to speed past Her graceful countenance at an almost mindless pace. Not caring, not thinking. But he knows, or at least he feels that he knows. Thus, he deliberates and he sacralise.

He sits down with the seeming strained effort of an elderly man, on the steps of the balcony terrace, and lights a cigarette. Spark, and orange finger of flame from the lighter, deep vermillion glow of the tobacco tip burning, and a long slow draught heaved out after a seemingly long pause. He watches the smoke as it twirls and swirls, breathes and collapse, akin to a dancer performing her dance with long silken bands, fluttering gracefully about, floating prettily away. 

To be continued…