When Morning Comes

photo credit: https://unsplash.com/dankapeter

I more often than not occasionally find myself in front of the window of my room every morning after waking up, opening the curtain to find the outside world usually bathed in pallid light, to witness the morning scene slowly unfolding in front of me without me actually being conscious of the act itself. Staring to the outside world from the second floor window of my house, which is unfortunately located in one of the bustling areas of the city, I familiarize myself more with the way people start the day. They way those office workers walk with their hurried steps, the way they stand with slumped shoulders as they wait for buses to, respectively, take them somewhere, some place, could be anywhere, really; some with a trace of sleepiness, some almost expressionless, some looking annoyed, some deeply brooding, buried in what I conclude as utter distaste mixed with consternation, probably not really anticipating what the day has to offer to them.




Then the cars and the motorcycles begin to crowd the lanes. The cleaning men and women would make their rounds from one spot to another under the rising sun to sweep off the littering garbage. An old grandfather meanwhile walks with much effort, dragging his feet one at a time, taking time to avoid stumbling over a crack on the road. A group of students going for a field trip lines up behind their teacher (a complex of historical museums is nearby), crossing the street with their cheerful chatters despite the arising heat that the day promises to bring, no sooner than in a couple of hours later.

A typical morning view in big cities.

So... all this little observation of mine actually takes no longer than a minute. Maybe it happens in a split second. Sometimes it is carried with much indifference, sometimes with a deliberate curiosity. Either way, it just naturally takes place, like an order of thing, something that one does when one opens the curtain.

But well, it strikes me again how each of us leads a life so different from one another. Each is blessed or cursed, depending on how one sees it, with his or her own fate, which would or wouldn't crisscross each other's. There will be suffering. There will be a share of happiness as well as sadness. Twist, grief, sorrow, depression, anxiety... and how we react to them. One kind of emotion affects us differently; one might become a victim of his own suffering, but another would probably stand up and gain strength.

I once idly thought that, if a person leaves a thin line or a dotted line, like you would see in a map, in their wake every time they go somewhere, I'd imagine the surface of the world is black with lines crisscrossing one another, leaving no visible space in between. 

Those passengers I see inside the bus, for all I know they have their respective past and history, but each is in unison trying to build a place for a living, trying to survive. For a brief moment seamed by a sheer chance they are gathered in one tiny place, they are on the same board literally and figuratively, sitting beside each other but each is clueless of the existence of each other. Different upbringings, different circumstances, and perhaps with different tragedies.

With a heave of sigh, I'd say, "This is life, huh."