The past month has taken a pull from all of us. The tiredness on people's faces is clear when you walk past them on the streets. We are all waiting for the inevitable to happen: the crops go bad, animals start to go crazy, the temperatures inevitably drop, and the world and human species come to an end. It's in those moments that it seems like a good idea to sing "here comes the sun" to the sun – or to ourselves really. I don't know which one they are actually singing for. Sometimes I like to remember how it felt like to go to sleep thinking of the weather that I might wake up to. Now it all seems tiring, like we stopped in time. In a way we did, since our whole notion of time was based on the one thing that is no longer here. But it feels like we are stuck in a millisecond and are waiting for that same millisecond to implode. I'd like to imagine that "time" didn't stop everywhere, and the sun still shines, just not here.
The people hanging from their windows seem as if they haven’t slept; heavy bags underline their eyes, more so because of the paleness of their skin. The woman next to me doesn’t even bother to sing anymore, just looking at the horizon in a silent prayer. Her white face almost seems like the moon, filled with the little imperfections that create its beauty, hanging up above giving us the little light left in her. My gaze is cut off when the woman moves back inside and I realize that the song has already come to an end. The windows all around are closed, leaving me alone in the dark.
I gather my blankets, almost leaving this cold void, when the sky catches my attention. The endless stars in the sky almost cover up the darkness of the universe, lit up like freckles. It has never looked so beautiful, being able to see all the planets and light that was hidden for so long. I laugh to myself, thinking of how obnoxious the sun can be. Maybe these stars will keep us warm. Maybe we will survive. Maybe, just maybe, we don’t need the sun.
here comes the sun
here comes the sun
The same melody that has woken me up for the past month is once again interrupting my sleep.
I look at the clock at my right, reading 6 am. I try to stand up but my head feels too heavy, so I lay on my side and look at the drawing on the wall. The sounds of morning life become louder and louder with each second that passes, calling me back to the sad reality. I turn to look at the window behind me, not surprised by the lack of light outside. I get out of my covers and am met by a cold breeze, goosebumps forming on my legs and arms – a feeling I'm all too familiar with by now. I reach for my jacket and gather one of the blankets in the other hand. I open my window and let the music in as I sit on the edge, following the same routine I have each day for the past month.
Most windows have people hanging from them, listening to the one guy that has a guitar, singing along with his wife. The same tradition has been going on for the past month, ever since the sun stopped coming up. No one really knows why, but it has been 47 days the sun has come to greet us with a hello. Since then, every morning at sunrise, the couple from the neighbouring building starts playing "here comes the sun" and the rest of the people join in. What once seemed to be a hopeful action now serves to remind me when I’m pulled out of bed that it isn't the middle of the night, nor are my blinds on. I press my head to the side of my window and swing my feet to the rhythm of the song without actually joining in.
by tina
