Weekend Morning Blues

The light is already loud when I wake up, pushing through the blinds in thin, bright lines. A small window, a patterned valance, the room still dim at the edges—everything looks slightly washed, like the day has been running for a while without me.

Weekend Morning Blues feels like that: not sadness exactly, more like a quiet weight you carry from the bed to the floor, from one room to the next. The kind of Sunday morning where you can hear the house living—soft shifts in the walls, a distant hum outside—and you realize summer is leaving without making a big announcement.

I keep staring at that light as if it could explain what I’m supposed to do with the leftover minutes of a weekend. It’s strange how goodbyes show up in ordinary places: in a window that’s too bright, in a room that hasn’t warmed yet, in the pause before you decide whether coffee will fix anything.

Maybe that’s all a seasonal goodbye is—learning to sit still while the world changes its color. The morning doesn’t ask for much. Just notice it. Let the light spill in. Let the day be what it is, even if it feels like the last page of something you weren’t ready to finish.