Author Miss Parisia B.
And so after a night of celebrating the victim, I was jolted awake. Eyes wide with no evidence of what had demanded my consciousness. I opted for a second opinion as I gently folded my eyes shut.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered, is what I recall. Her unequivocal nature was to whisper, to gently approach mastery. She stood before me, baring her breasts, the florescent light targeting the nape of her belly and casting a shadow to the trimmed willow between her thighs. I couldn’t imagine her face for the rawness of her skin banished my gaze, but she was beautiful, incandescent. That’s what I could make out through bowed eyes peering horizontally towards her.
In the morning, music plays. All is silent so you can hear the music play. Your breath sighs the faint tune of a guitar inhaling before its next strum. Your thoughts settle to a beautiful hum, one you can almost sway to. And before you can nourish your disposition, your stomach swirls around and belts its favorite tune, over and over again. Before the day begins, all is pure, nothing yet can be violent. Between the walking tempo and traffics, the peak is a sacred place to be. No one would dare kill a man during these moments, for he would be utilizing its blessing (the prime of the morning) to prepare for the kill. Yet, what a beautiful way to die, before anything can begin, everything waiting for you to rise, to bare.
Her eyes remain on me, she is unashamed of surrendering to her budding essence. Still, she is immovable, non-threatening. Aware, but not exposing. The nature of her is nautical. It makes you feel light, as though floating weren’t enough, so you’ve come back down; she is the cascade. I recall my thoughts (predating their silence) requesting a quick, rescindable moment of her time. She is continuous. Her movements seemed to precede mine, so we followed her, and we danced.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a morning, the last time I’ve set aside all intention to kill the day. I put down my plotting weapons to disarm beauty with tasks, denying fulfillment with expectations, killing the mythology of self through deprivation of joy. Refusing to dance with me.
Eyes wide with my spirit fixed on consciousness, I opted for a second chance.
Mornings are for sipping tea, with fermented turmeric, for healing, and loving yourself enough to look her in the mirror and deem her worthy. To spend moments painting her magical and mysterious. They should never start out perfect, no, contrary, mornings are flawed and straightforward; they are moments and pauses filled with you.