Dawn

Illustrated by Samantha Fulton.

the world has stopped breathing
and all i hear is my heart beating amongst the trees rustling outside. 
i press my ear against the window, to hear more. i wish i could touch them.

outside
there is a different person running every hour
they have nowhere to go
but they have somewhere to hide. 
and the man from across the road waves every morning
as i peer out of my glass stained confinement.
wondering what freedom tastes like.

we are stuck between a state of living and dying
only to see the loneliness of streets
calling for feet to brush upon them.
mother dawn wakes me up in the morning
her light peeking through my curtains, begging to be seen. 
there is no night and day
no morning or afternoon
but dawn reaches us again
marking another day of our resilience and confinement.

dawn! my old friend. a reminder of the clockwork power of god. she will reach out every morning. 
how dutiful! she reminds us of how life will go on. 
how beautiful! her warm embrace in the corners of our house. she is word of mouth. 

i envy her. she approaches without restraints. 
my life is now boxed in around these window panes. and my front door is locked. 
i have nowhere to go. no purpose.
she moves so freely, and graces my windowsill with her golden hour amber light. 
how effortless and admirable! she approaches each house reminding them that they have gotten through a new day 

encroaching upon my existence, reminding me of my inability, my confinement, my isolation.
dawn rises, whilst i remain here. 
she is a reminder of the old times. the impossibility of human nature. existence is so frail. 
i am victim to time. confined in a clock.

we have become static.
like the roads without cars. 
the parks without bikes. 
the benches without picnics. 
how strange. that amidst this regiment, there will come a dawn.  
showing off. enclosing upon my house, trapping me in. until my face is covered in the golden hour light
of her embrace.  

i wish to move, to run, to witness the shake of someone's hand. the rush of children playing ball. 
how I miss the mercenary mechanism of the modern day. 
rush hour. busy streets. 
it’s all so quiet.

how strange to think that we exist. when all we have is our beginning and end. no love to give. no songs to sing. just a helpless watching. wondering when we will begin again. 

and the leaves from trees are beginning to grow. 
the man waves at me from his window.
i look outside and see people running, at separate hours.

one day the cars will rev their engines. and trees will be cut back.
i will take trains and buses and swim in oceans
dawn isn’t so stark. i see her, in corners, in the reflections of the car window. painted amongst the trees.
sometimes she stares, as though she is resenting me. i can ignore her now. 
i am free.