He woke to the sound of cicadas buzzing in a dull roar, the light of dawn turning everything in the room blue. The sound was so loud that he thought it would shake the windows of his home, but it never did. Waking up further, he realized it was a ridiculous thought. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair after pushing himself up on his futon. The tatami room around him was plainly decorated, and the smell of grass still clung to the mats. He used to hate it as a kid, but now it was a comfort. The smell permeated the air more than usual since the humidity from the rain still clung to the air.
Which reminded him that his loose tank top was clinging to his skin. Now, his skin shone with that same blue color as the room, and he wished it wouldn't turn his mood the same color. Aside from his futon, there was only a small table and bookshelf adorning the room. They sat beside a full closet whose sliding doors remainder closed, and a small, ticking clock sat atop the table. It was the room he had always stayed in as a kid, and it was the room he'd always stay in. There was no reason to change.
He honestly liked the blue morning, though he was sure it was no later than 5 or 6 in the morning. Living out in the mountains meant he could live on his own schedule, so the time wasn't of much consequence. May the gods bless his grandmother for leaving him this place.
He threw off his covers, and pulled himself up without much fuss. When he was alone, with no sounds aside from the drone of the cicadas and the chirp of the birds, he didn't make much noise himself. It didn't feel necessary to break the fragile silence that clung to the walls of the home. His home. He still had trouble with that new reality. Yet, the home was there to remind him every day.
He walked through the hall, past the many other rooms that he liked to keep as open as possible, and to the kitchen to make coffee so he could start the day. Starting the day, however, just meant that he'd open up the doors like the day before, and sit on the veranda as he watched the sun rise over the trees. Then, he'd start his actual work again until the sunset, go on a walk until dusk, close all the doors, and sleep until he woke up to do it again the next day. It was the best kind of monotony that he could imagine, yet every interruption was also welcome as well. The woman down the way bringing him fresh, colorful vegetables, or the old man that was his "closest" neighbor coming over for tea only to gruffly tell him that torrential rains of the monsoon season were coming.
In this blue morning, though, it was quiet.
Which reminded him that his loose tank top was clinging to his skin. Now, his skin shone with that same blue color as the room, and he wished it wouldn't turn his mood the same color. Aside from his futon, there was only a small table and bookshelf adorning the room. They sat beside a full closet whose sliding doors remainder closed, and a small, ticking clock sat atop the table. It was the room he had always stayed in as a kid, and it was the room he'd always stay in. There was no reason to change.
He honestly liked the blue morning, though he was sure it was no later than 5 or 6 in the morning. Living out in the mountains meant he could live on his own schedule, so the time wasn't of much consequence. May the gods bless his grandmother for leaving him this place.
He threw off his covers, and pulled himself up without much fuss. When he was alone, with no sounds aside from the drone of the cicadas and the chirp of the birds, he didn't make much noise himself. It didn't feel necessary to break the fragile silence that clung to the walls of the home. His home. He still had trouble with that new reality. Yet, the home was there to remind him every day.
He walked through the hall, past the many other rooms that he liked to keep as open as possible, and to the kitchen to make coffee so he could start the day. Starting the day, however, just meant that he'd open up the doors like the day before, and sit on the veranda as he watched the sun rise over the trees. Then, he'd start his actual work again until the sunset, go on a walk until dusk, close all the doors, and sleep until he woke up to do it again the next day. It was the best kind of monotony that he could imagine, yet every interruption was also welcome as well. The woman down the way bringing him fresh, colorful vegetables, or the old man that was his "closest" neighbor coming over for tea only to gruffly tell him that torrential rains of the monsoon season were coming.
In this blue morning, though, it was quiet.
