Hummingbird

I sit on the roof. It is a cap roof, if a wind should blow with gusto at a certain angle my house would be decapitated. Get it? I sit here dangling my bare feet whilst the sunrise emerge like a growing splot of spilled tea soaking into my grandmother’s Colgate-white table cloth, but in fact it was black in the beginning of things. In a multitude of pinks, lavenders and sly bright oranges, the colours bleed across the skyway.

I smell morning smells. Felt morning feelings. Saw morning sights. I stay awake to feel the world shake the night like a favourite fuzzy blanket, reluctantly. I think of how recently I was taken by the urge to chop off half of my below-the-waist chestnut hair. I can’t say why for I don’t know yet. I made my mother do just that a few nights ago. She did so, also, reluctantly. Another thing, I have taken to wear my post-braces retainer again. My gran frequently reminds me of what a waste two years of self indulged pain was. I finally decided to put the damned thing on, freaking aesthetic compulsions.

I spy the hummingbird in resplendent peacock-blue on the veranda. The one who visits, presumably, every morning. I wiggle my unpainted and bluntly manicured toes at it in greeting. Flitting about in a furious beat of wings to and fro nectar-saturated recesses in the fresh flowers. What a beautiful metaphor. Carpe diem. Seizing the day with such industry. I spy the she-cat who thinks she owns this place, sparing not a scant glance at my presence. Whatever.

I raise my face to catch the warmth of the sun, my eyes closed, my other senses open.

There are metaphors abound, everywhere if you care to look hard enough. In a sense we learn from our environments, instead we mostly focus on more material things, or even not focusing any anything at all, substantial or not. I want to be good. I want to contribute something, offer meaning to someone. To the world. I can if I try. I should, you know. One shouldn’t choose to be pathetic, it would be like the ‘ultimate-pathetic’ if one consciously picked that overgrown path.

Life should have purpose, whatever that should be. Otherwise … what would you call it? I dunno.

The orange fades into a nondescript blue-grey colour. It looks boring but it is not. Under that shade of sky miracles are happening, wars are raging, heroes are fighting to the death. New ones are born from struggle and the wasteland of grim prospects. Somewhere right now a kindle of kittens is born.

Somewhere a drowsy night-radio host is shaken awake as AC/DC’s ‘Back in Black‘ blasts on the radio waves. She spills coffee over the soundboard, swearing profusely in Croatian as she rushes to save her job with Betty Boop bandanna. A writer has just finished the final draft of his new book. He is reclining in bad form on his creaky leather chair in his constricted flat in Italy, rubbing gritty eyes, sleep a welcome release.

Somewhere under that now uneventful sky a life is saved, somewhere the battle is lost. So many things are occurring that our eyes do not see, cannot see. Today is not boring, it never is, perhaps you are not doing enough to make it interesting.

Somewhere in the world the sky is in a blinding rage; a berserker, lightening sword and a churning sea its shield.

I run my fingers through now short hair as it flies around my head in a halo, at other times like a proud flag. I feel light, imperceptibly changed. I wonder, as I stifled an approaching yawn, I wonder if it would be a domino-effect. I think I look forward to that. What other changes can a haircut trigger in me? I will follow up on this closely.

Now, the town has finally woken up. Heavenly scents from the bakery in the distance waft delicately in the air, like a foreign accent  but then you realize you know the dialect. Vehicles resume the daily erosion of the roads, leaving places to go places. The birds go about their business. I try to figure out if I should sleep or stay up. Indecision chews at me. I am a little tired but I have spent my night, then again, I stand to lose this day as well. I’ll see how it goes.

How will your day proceed? How has it developed? How has it ended?

After Dark – Haruki Murakami by Sean Fujiyoshi on Flickr. I very much would like to learn Japanese, my mind is curious and needs the exercise. It’s beyond pretty to look at, too.

G’morning or perhaps good night where ever you sleep.

D.

P.S: I don’t sit on my roof, as much as I’d love to, it’s not possible. Unfortunately. This has been a successful attempt in writing in present tense! Have a nice day everyone 😀

 

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