|An Autumn Morning
Author: Steppenwoelfin PM
A description of an autumn morning.Rated: Fiction K - English - Spiritual - Words: 590 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 1 - Published: 11-04-04 - id: 1752922
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN AUTUMN MORNING
A/N: This is a true description of an autumn-morning. I woke up early today and there was something nearly magical about the morning I experienced; so I decided to write down my impressions and post them here :-)
The cloak of my dream slips away from me as my alarm clock beeps frantically into my ear at six-fifteen in the morning. It is pitch-dark outside as I groggily open the shutters and the window. I stretch out my arm; the air is cold, and there is a deep low rushing sound muttering in an incomprehensible language; it imparts to me an odd sense of vague awe.
By the time I am ready to leave the house, the sun has already begun to rise; the sky changes from a mysterious dark-blue shade to purple and pink, and gradually, as Aurora gathers her mantle around her, it turns to light blue.
My eyes are open, but inwardly I am still dreaming. I think of Bob Dylan's famous song Mr. Tambourine Man and the feeling of weightlessness it gives me every time I listen to it. I watch the moody shadows flit over the walls and the pavement; an atmosphere of transcendence seems to wax dominant ere retreating to some unknown world with an unheard sigh.
The tram is full, and when I leave it, I sense an expectant hush lying over the streets and there is a translucent shimmer which accompanies it. The chilly air is piercingly fresh and it does me a world of good as I mount the stairs which lead to yet another little street. The old houses are fascinating – pointed brown roofs, some of them ending in spires; several of the cracked, faded shutters are tightly closed. Again I hear that rushing sound, as if the wind were blowing, but the autumn-leaves on the ground remain where they are, and nothing stirs to an invisible breeze.
I can hear the traffic, now: my sluggishness is melting away; my dreamy lethargy is yielding to alertness; my ears and eyes are no longer clouded with the echoes and landscapes of my half-forgotten dreams.
The English Seminar rises before me, its charm enhanced by the beauty of the bright autumn morning.
Later, I leave the institute in order to buy something to eat for lunch. It is around ten o'clock, and as I walk along, I realize that the hush and the rushing murmur have gone. People are going about their business, pottering up and down. I pass a dimly lit restaurant, and as my eyes brush one of its windows, I see a little lamp glowing on a neat table.
Life is returning slowly and steadily, pouring through the streets similar to blood flowing through a network of veins, arteries and capillaries. The moment of magic verging on epiphany has vanished.
Leaning pensively against a wall, I take a few moments to reflect on this glorious morning and on the sensation of wandering around in one's hometown and endeavoring to discover new things about it by viewing it as if it were wholly unfamiliar.
I ascend the stairs a second time.
The sun floods my surroundings with golden light, and the stone steps are iridescent for the tiniest moment.
A few minutes later, I am in the library of the English Seminar, gazing at the shelves of books from time to time as I write down my impressions of the preceding hours…