Morning

I don’t do mornings. When I wake up and the ringer chirps like a dawn-shrieking rooster, the turquoise light seeps through the misty rose curtains. The dog pants, gets up, and settles in the corner, then harrumphs and pays me no other mind.

I hate the morning like I hate beginnings; I hate beginning because I’m never ready to end. I’ve grown accustomed to late nights and late drinks, the mellowed chill buzz that soothes me to sleep. But now the morning coos and I collapse into bed, dreaming and swearing and determined to end earlier, if just to feel more alive when frightened awake.

On most mornings, the sun is absent, and a monochromatic glow suffocates my driving space. I don't mind; I find the eighty-minute drive to be peaceful, except for when I am screaming at other cars. Yet even when it is clear outside, smokestacks and soul-less rolling behemoths bleed into the horizon, blurred by vaporous puffs of gaseous pollutants and gridlocked thoroughfares.

My primary route spans 41 miles along the 405, dividing southern California's Los Angeles and Orange County beaches and valley's. Each lane paces in blurry lines with amber-streaked walls closing on each side at seventy-miles per hour. There is never not traffic and the caffeine doesn’t hit soon enough.

Commuting is giving in. There is no alternative, no winning, no getting the best of, no taking the bull by its horns, either. When it's good, it's okay, but when it's bad, it's a day destroying mood killer.