He never welcomed the first light of dawn visiting through the windows. The windows of his soul. The barbarious sun invaded his house in complete silence, only leaving traces of heat, baking every room like an oven.He hated Monday mornings for only one reason - hangover was not for Monday mornings, but it always happened to him. What came to his mind was whether he was to drive to office or walk to get the bus. "Don't even think about it," grumbled he, having one sip of Smirnoff to pull himself together a little bit, "that'll swing meself off the bloody road. Jesus what time is it...now now... just lemme"
Walk. The suburban morning sun soaked up morning dew on the leaves, leaving a smell of green immensing in the air beneath the trees. Hardly did he know the smell, the car perfume (fake smell of Grasse lavender) took over his olfactory sense. But he always knew that the real jungle 43.4 miles away from home was certainly be more ruthless than the sunlight of daybreak. He didn't want to think much - wicked, brutal animals there - which would ruin such a good start, which has already screwed up, at least in his head in the whirl.
People would say, "shitting in the toilet is the only private time one has in a day". This is broad - if lovers care about nothing and kiss on the metro, it's theirs. To Alex, spending one hour on the upper deck of the bus was already enjoyable, for he would not have a minute to appreciate when he closed himself in a moving cage...
He suddenly remembered the first time he welcomed the sunlight.
The first day of work as a clerk in a small firm. He left home at 7am just to catch an empty bus to downtown - he had been living in suburb since childhood - and he could enjoy the ride and the breakfast on the upper deck, and of course, the morning sun. Limitless love from the powerhouse lit up everything, vitalised. The love was great when it shone on a mother with a son. The love was greater when a thread of sunray carried the girl of his fancy to two rows in front of him. He could even feel the love when he closed his eyes... the warmth akin to mother's womb, from which he had parted for long but had sculpted in his subconsciousness.
Leaving home means one has to fight for survival. Simon and Garfunkel's The Boxer always rang in his ears:
When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers...
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie...
What years of struggling gave him was he no more needed to ride on a bus, and more struggling. The higher position he held, the less mood he had for the morning sunlight, for he either worked till midnight, or hung out at pubs (sometimes a way to climb up the ladder) until he hardly could open his eyes. He even loathed it, maybe it's because he no longer cared a shit about the womb or whatsoever, and he had everything he desired, even women. "Don't gimme no moral lesson, saints." he would say. True, especially there is no such word when you know how the world fares...
A gast of cold December morning breeze woke him up. He reminded of himself, I no longer enjoy it. No. When the journey came to the end he needed to face everything, still, on his own. I'm leaving, I'm leaving/But the fighter still remains... Why? What for?
Suddenly, he found the morning sun is actually setting.
