Every morning is to be loved. It is crisp and curled, and carries the promise of great things. There is so much life crouched within the hours that are yet to unfurl, moments to be caught and crystallised into eternal words. I look out a window, wherever I am, I breathe, and tell myself I will honour the day, I will be true to myself and my art. But somewhere amidst those abundant hours, I am tricked, robbed of time, and I do not capture any of the day's inspiration. Golden moments may cry out to be cherished, but they will slip away, drop by drop, until another day gets washed away to oblivion.
But tomorrow I will.
I will still the morning and woo it. I will tell the moments they are worthy of being remembered because they are God's gift to me for my short time on Earth. And I will drink the moments, that the morning may weep my loss when I am gone.
But tomorrow I will.
I will still the morning and woo it. I will tell the moments they are worthy of being remembered because they are God's gift to me for my short time on Earth. And I will drink the moments, that the morning may weep my loss when I am gone.
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