I’ve never been a morning person. Well, easily at least. I've tried to become an earlier riser countless times, but it always slips. Sometimes it's the morning after a late evening out with friends, sometimes it's simply a Sunday and sleeping in felt justified. I always loved my sleep.
But I keep trying. Because on days I manage to resist hitting the snooze button, I always enjoy the quiet, early morning. When the sun hasn’t cast its light on my part of the world. When it’s still dark, as if mystery lies in the corners. When the air is fresh, crisp, and cool. When it’s absolutely quiet, as if the whole world is asleep.
And to watch as the day opens. As birds wake up and fill the silence with their sweet songs. When clouds start catching colors of soft pink and yellow, penetrating the black-turned-blue sky. And slowly, so elegantly, but also much too quickly, when those colors turn bright and strong and loud. Red and orange, announcing the coming of the sun. How beautiful. How majestic. How magical.
And only then does the world start to waken. The sound of hoarse voices. Of bicycles. Of rustling and sweeping. But slowly, still, as if still in slumber. And still quiet enough for reflection. For comfort. For a moment of gratitude.
Those are the hours I love. But which I don't always get to enjoy. Maybe that’s also why I love them so much. The struggle to get up makes that moment more precious. And knowing that fewer people see the sunrise makes it more beautiful to me than a sunset could ever be.