The Weight of the Morning
Every day begins with a quiet tension that I can’t shake
The keys sit where I left them last night, heavier than they look. Each step toward them feels deliberate, measured—every movement a small negotiation with the morning.
I pause at the doorway, listening. The wind shifts in the trees, a car hums far off, the floor creaks beneath my weight. Each sound registers with a little more meaning than it should.
I collect my shoes, check the bag, trace the ritual of getting ready. Ordinary motions feel slightly stretched, requiring extra attention, a mental map of all the things I might forget, misplace, or overlook.
The driveway waits quietly. I step out, aware of every small motion, every shift of weight. The air carries its subtle cues, and I absorb them all, letting awareness guide the rhythm.
I move forward slowly, measured, noticing the neighborhood, the sounds, the timing of the world around me. Each action is intentional, each glance purposeful, each breath steady.
The morning’s weight settles into a rhythm, contained and acknowledged—not lightened, not fixed, but complete in its own quiet way.