Sunday morning

The city rustle was coming through the shutters. Emerging out of the feathery blanket, she opened them to get a glimpse of the sunlight. The fresh autumn air came along, wandering in her hair.

She loved weekends. The feeling of culpability for nestling in between the sheets with a cup of coffee was only scheduled for Monday. Right now, lemon juice, journaling and breakfast were to be done with gentle care. Closing her eyes again and resting her sleepyhead on the cushion, she contemplated the day ahead. As she drifted towards the kitchen with the plan of mashing some avo on a toast, she gazed at the living room mirror and observed her reflection. Mixed between a bob of unsettled hair strands and grave hazelnut eyes, her age was an abstraction. The features of her face were rather ordinary and yet, they were animated by her emotions and then, it was effortless to grasp her thoughts.

With a melancholic grind, she reflected on how privileged she was to be warm. To be protected from the hassle of the world. But, in spite of that, she often found herself in a kind of a storm. In a stream of loneliness, in the middle of hailstones.

She opened her diary covered with sketches and ink and felt a subtle breeze coming from the window ajar caressing her skin. Through her shivers she captured the present moment with a pen. In the air, there was her favourite smell. Steaming coffee and grilled bread. The radio was playing a random song. It took her along memory lane, just for a second. Lost in an abstracted moment, she moved her body mesmerised by the melody. And suddenly, by announcing the time, the presenter interfered with her dance but it reminded her that the morning had gone already. She looked outside, the sun was pounding. She had no plans whatsoever and so, she decided to go running.