The rain poured this morning. And it was early, too early to be awake. He was lifting weights in the garage, a better man than the prince charming of my adolescent dreams.
I had fallen asleep quickly the night before. Showering and crawling into bed like a wounded dog. Not planning to fall asleep, my only regret is that I missed out on one of my the cinnamon scrolls my boyfriend had made the Sunday previous. The pang of disappointment hit me with a twinge in the stomach, mid abdomen, as I remembered this fact.
I awoke only twice in the night, once when he was climbing into bed with his book. ‘Go back to sleep Trinny,’ he said softly as he started to read.
The second time was at 2AM to go to the bathroom. I stood in the dark room staring intently at where I know the phones with the alarms lay. Constantly paranoid I would wake up in the middle of the night and frantically ask him if he had set the alarms. He would reply that yes he had and that I could then go back to sleep. Standing there in the dark I rubbed my cold toes together.
‘They’ve been set Trinny,’ He said sleepily.
I crawled back into bed satisfied and didn’t wake up until the rain pounded on our open window and the alarm started to beep. He got up first and I sleepily followed half an hour later.
The night felt eerily poetic and entirely magical even though nothing particularly spectacular had happened. Why do we only write stories about the absurd, fantastical moments of our lives?
It is no wonder that we are the generation that is eternally dissatisfied with our lives, it is because we have forgotten to create poetry out of our every day. Turning what was previously considered mundane, into quiet magic.
Where is your silent revolution?