There are many different ways to experience the morning. I find it easiest to stare at the window. Each window in each bedroom in each house is different. My own bedroom window is covered by a red fabric so that the sunlight streaming into the room is crimson. My hands look like they’ve been dipped in blood. This bedroom has no curtains. There are only blinds. Once the blinds are pulled back, the bright god awful light hits and sends my skin reeling, my eyes darting back and forth, trying to focus. The light is cool and unloving. But light can only be unloving. It is the perpetrator of color and when has their been love in color? In all honesty, light is the beginning of a lie, of an illusion. So on a good morning, I don’t open the blinds. I lay in the bed, wrapped up like an agitated caterpillar waiting to grow wings, to sprout divinity from my back, to find some way to float up and out of whatever pisshole of a life I’ve clawed my way into. Outside of the bed, it feels like the room is swelling. Growing. Maybe it’s been listening. Maybe it feels the need for the light. But mornings like this are not worth opening the blinds. I could be a vampire if I wanted. Stay cooped up in different homes with different blinds and different people. Shy of the light. Frightened of the illusions. But tomorrow’s morning might be paler, the sort of morning that is dim and calming to the beating of a heart. So the blinds will inadvertently be opened.