King Lear

It may be that all there is to being awake is getting up and going outside.

If only in the morning to sit on the porch and listen to the new sun finding its voice.

Warblers, eastern bluebirds, meadowlarks, leading purpose driven lives, find things to do while you sit there, while you come to your wakefulness.

The glare's a little harsh, as you're facing west and the sun is gaining strength, having gone from looking you in the eye to being your master, but you take it in, feeling its power and feeling the power it gives you.

So you sit there, getting older and older, listening to the wood planks of the porch expand and contract as the sun rises, hearing the tin roof do its experimental dance, until it's too bright, too warm.

Then your wakefulness takes a turn--you're only human--and you have to come inside finally and close the door, thinking that the warmth you've felt out on the porch will last all day.

And it does and doesn't, it may or may not, because you are human, subject not only to the sun but to your very own consciousness and all the extreme variables inside.