Morning Fantasy

A rainy day maybe, but one with an orange balloon amongst concrete clouds. Or a red umbrella making a stage out of the pavement. Breakfast like any other breakfast, morning birds chirping whle you eat, not a violent sound in the air, just the crunching of corn flakes and the sizzle of sunny-side-ups. A floor beamed on by what can only be stolen sunlight from a whole in the gray sky, not hidden by pressed and folded clothes thrown from upstairs. Doors open, doors without a care, without the threat of war in the kitchen. A bed without the weight of the world. A roostered cup and saucer: letter-less, guiltless.

I meant to get up, to be transplanted to another planet, probably deeper into outer space. Somewhere near that-summer-in-boracay galaxy or the hiding-in-spaces constellation or that-bohol-trip-with-friends asteriod belt. Out of Iraq, out of Africa, out of the Philippines, away from this address.