A Typical Morning

         As my time of peaceful slumber ticked by, the sounds of a bothersome alarm clock slowly built up. If only in my dreams was I aware of the time. If only I could embrace the noise that would emit from the apparatus.

         Just like that, my ears received the wretched noises from the alarm.

         Rays from a blinding sun shone through my fogged windows, glistening as the beams of light touched the wet, spotted surface. What was once night time was quickly drawn into day time. The dark, bluish hues of the evening before transitioned into a magnificent vermilion. It's morning. No doubt about it.

         After forcing myself out of bed and a habitual morning stretch, I take a moment just to examine the confines of my room. Everything next to the window was pure yellow, from my various books to the keys of my ancient piano. In the shadowy corners were various wires that connected to the television set. On the opposite side was a barely visible xylophone, with only the light from the window hinting that there are keys still attached to the untouched instrument. I was a musician.

         Monday morning. The most commonly dreaded morning of the week. For the majority of society, it means back to work or school. For me, it's another grueling day of composition. Many of my fellow colleagues declare my occupation "not so hard". It's a situation that pleads the saying of "easier said than done".