A soft, sweet parade of shapes

So, I'm interested this morning in the moments when I've just woken, when time is as new to me as it ever will be and words aren't words yet but are asleep themselves inside images. Then it's as if I'm looking out a window with my eyes closed and seeing everything there is to see, a soft, sweet parade of shapes waiting to be named--(whether they're waiting for me to name them is another story).

I can't call this, consciousness, I don't know what to call it, it's something other than consciousness, something I have no name for. I could say that at times like these I become a real thinker, but I'm not thinking at all, I'm more asleep than I'm awake, having slept long enough in my own short life to know that waking ruins everything sleep has created.

I've learned to stay out of the way, at least I know that much, to stay as quietly as possible at the edges of whatever it is that's making itself seen for as long as I can. For soon enough, words will start speaking up for themselves without being asked. And then, if the morning is anything like this morning, I'll see the trees themselves waking up, sparkling with rainwater under a dark sky.

Awake, the desire to take this investigation further feels overwhelming, even kind of desperate. What happened in that short period of time between my sleep and becoming fully awake? Was it a purely physical transaction, a matter of changing addresses, of moving from one house to another?