I imagined, when I was 15, that my 5 a.m’s would be different.
I imagined waking up with nature, cold but content.
I imagined 5 a.m walks along a solitary lake bordering the forests.
I imagined my reflection in that freezing water.
I saw eyes filled with promise and a desire to change the world.
I saw beauty. And peace.
I heard, in my mind, the sound of leaves crunching under my feet as I neared a warm wooden cottage.
I remember…a face and a smile. I can only recall the way they made me feel.
It felt like someone had opened a window into my soul and light was pouring in to overflowing.
There was a laugh too, rich and deep, and it seemed to ignite that light within me into endless tingles, setting that forlorn soul of mine in motion.
And I could hear, quite clearly, the one question in my mind:
“When has a cold, cloudy 5 a.m morning ever felt this warm?”
“His life, in truth, was a mess of empty coffee cups, half-written novels and sleepless nights spent wondering about the meaning of his existence.”
He looked at them with an ugly, uncertain kind of emotion.
They were talking, the lot of them, about things he had only dreamed of.
The shortest one was speaking of his latest travels, while his brother enthused over his newest job. Next to him was the one who had always been soft at heart, always with stars in his eyes, and now even more so as he spoke timidly of a girl who was more beautiful than all the stars and moons. And then beside him, was the tough one of the group; the rebel during their school days, who would somehow manage to come up either with mischief or with a new tattoo or piercing every other week or so. He was listening, with a look of uncharacteristic fondness as his friend talked about that girl he swore did not belong to this world.
Silence fell on the group as the question was asked. And it suddenly felt like they were all looking at him, all waiting, expecting.
And him, what about him?
His life, in truth, was a mess of empty coffee cups, half-written novels and sleepless nights spent wondering about the meaning of his existence.
But he couldn’t say that, could he?
And me, what about me?
And then, at that moment…
That was it, that was the ugliness that had been growing in him. It had fallen on him like a drop of ink on a white sheet of paper, and then it had spread and spread and spread…