SDMX (somniamagus) wrote,


This morning, I watched the sun rise.

This is significant to me because, despite it being one of the most regular occurrences the human race is privy to, I continue to find it one of the most beautiful sights I've had the privilege to enjoy. I vividly remember watching one in high school the night after an especially persistant rain. The house I grew up in sits in a dip in the road and I had to go out in the middle of the night to clear leaves from the drainage ditch so that the lawn, and potentially the house itself, didn't flood. The next morning, in sluggish transit to an early morning class, I watched as the light of the sun triumphantly stabbed through the last few clouds that had dominated its territory for days, splaying crepuscular rays about my entire field of vision. The purples and oranges, the clouds twisting about the beams of light as if in vaporous death throes, the sting of cold and moisture in the air vanishing from my skin. I felt like I stood in place and let it burn into my memory for a half and hour.

I was late to class.

This is also significant since, despite getting up pre-dawn each day, I never see it happen. It's always snuck up while I've fallen asleep on the train or while I'm engrossed in the set of articles that have been provided to me for the morning's perusal. By the time it occurs to me to look, it's already several degrees above the horizon, having somehow transformed itself from magnificent cosmic rotational display into that annoying beam of light that's navigated itself right into my fucking eye, jesus christ, that's bright.

Lastly, it's significant because I used to watch it happen almost every single day. Working the night shift fifty miles from where I lived, driving an hour each morning meant that, close to the end of my commute, I watched the sun drag itself up over the hills 5 days a week, becoming less beautiful and important to me each time. It slowly began to embody how useless I felt in my work, how alone I felt for the 10 hours I sat in an empty disheveled office complex or trudged around an equally empty and disheveled datacenter. That massive disc became a bead on an abacus, its path on a curved rail rather than a straight one, but the message still the same.

And then one day, it changed back. As if taking a damp rag to a dusty table, all of that was wiped away and I watched the sun reclaim its position as one of hope and promise. A beacon for what's ahead.

Five minutes and thirty two seconds before that moment, I finished writing this entry.

Three years later, that's the last sunrise I can remember before this morning. There may have been others, but honestly, it's difficult for them to compete. This was the moment I attribute to the true start of my career, the end of a long depression brought on both my work and by struggles with my memory, rejoining the rest of society in the daylight. Literally stepping out of the dark.

I still worry about all the things I mentioned in the entry, of course. Probably more now than I did then. This past week has been one of the most trying in recent memory and while the present crises seem to have been resolved, when asked if all is well, our oft-shaken 8-ball still insists: "Don't count on it".

Nevertheless, it is important for me to remember the distance between the last sunrise and this one. An immense amount of ground has been covered and accomplishments I never expected to be able to claim my own stand proudly in my arsenal. It is with a mix of humility and persistant self-deprecation that I generally ignore these things. And, for my own sake, that should change. At least a little bit.

So for today, the sun now proudly ascending skyscrapers, approaching its seat of power, I will accept what it has to offer. I will allow its wealth to pour into me and I will acknowledge that it has risen.
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