the morning light

I awake to an orb of light, bright orange and not pale to the night. I think in the light of an ancient radiance that gives meaning to every morning. I haven't seen the risen rays every day as some imagine they might. I'll give my perspective of the sun thought many mornings and the days growing shorter is not about only my life. The people around me know but expression is about more than intellectual heights. I writhe in reactions to some thought about my life. The emotional devotions of another dream I didn't invite. I think of every morning in another type of light, I'll listen to every thought I get, I often gave them more time at night. The time of listening has been the removal of myself from other types. A little written expression gives emotional expression a kind of life, desolate in some places, driven to new information types, I gave the weights of interpretation the level imposition in around about - letting some fade as though I couldn't say why they were important without others justification and the words and reactions of someone more important, or more knowledgeable, perhaps the experienced thoughts were too jumbled to make sense in my mouth. I'll know that my words are sometimes not quite my own though I thought through them as any person might. The pattern I have taken connects to others many times through out the sights and sounds of my life. That communication jumbled, mistakes I've felt or made can take my new meaning overnight. Those others I lost the will to know gave me a part of their life, whether I knew it that day or not, forever etched as memory, the connections lost or not. This moment recent not much unlike others I've had an interest in occurring through my life. The conversation given to what topics are at hand, the continuation always interrupted, whether my own or some type of distinct real event that made connection stay out of that part of a life. The actions as a part of that interest in connection stopped by my own analysis of why I shouldn't have time to be involved in such things, my imprecise personal life as different as some others say I could be. The test I felt was of my own design but was how I felt trapped by my own interest in words precise. There are other words to say this, there are other days about which I could write, the same thoughts may apply, the actions as well could be less about how my time was given to others and more about the little ways my own confidence was given to how others felt my life was right. The way I wrote about the things I read was less of my voice and more of the time inside my head. There is always more to say but I remember the time thoughts swirled as the moment had passed.