Sometimes, when the windows of my room becomes fogged up from the morning dew, and the water droplets, collecting weight, roll down ever so slowly, forming snaking water trails across the glass, I feel a chill run up my spine. The blur of the outside world shines through the dew, and it looks for all the world like I was awake in a dream. Is this world that I gaze at real?
Its the tiny details. Its the splash of colour on each single drop of water. Its the chill I feel emanating from the glass itself. Its the air in my room tastes a little musky from having the door closed all night. Its the sound of larks which I might have wished were nightingales.
I find myself just staring, my mind awander in the misty colours. I see myself walking through this field of blurry colours, exploring every nook and crany, finding many things, wondrous similitudes hidden beneath this fabric of seeming-reality. What else can I find?
Always, though, my morning daydream would be broken at the sound of the alarm clock, preset to screech at the appointed time. Darn.
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