Writers 
My alarm clock says,
“Wake up. The world is waiting.”
I say,
“Let it wait five minutes.
The world has been rushing
without asking for my permission.”
It rings again.
I pull the blanket higher
like a lawyer defending
the last peaceful country
on earth.
The clock does not understand
the importance of dreams.
It has never chased a future
through a crowded hallway.
It has never carried yesterday
inside its chest
and called it luggage.
It only knows numbers,
deadlines,
and the rude mathematics
of morning.
“Get up,” it insists.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you have things to do.”
“But what if I have become
someone who needs to breathe
before becoming useful?”
The clock goes silent.
For the first time,
it has no answer.
Outside,
a bird begins singing
as though it has already
won an argument with life.
The kettle coughs.
The window fills with sunlight.
A forgotten shoe waits
beside the door.
I sit up slowly.
Not because the clock
has defeated me,
but because I have remembered
that the day is not a prison.
It is a blank page
with no obligation
to resemble yesterday.
I turn off the alarm.
Then I whisper,
“Thank you for reminding me.”
The clock blinks.
Perhaps it is learning too.
Perhaps even machines
need someone to tell them
that time is not only
what we lose
it is also
what we are given.
And so I rise,
not running,
not fighting,
not trying to prove
that I deserve the morning.
I rise simply
because I am here.
And sometimes,
being here
is the first beautiful thing
we accomplish all day.
