At the edge of waking, before the day has fully taken its shape, there is a brief stillness in which the mind lies open. Light gathers quietly along the walls. The air rests, unclaimed. In that hour, thoughts do not yet press forward, but drift, half-formed, like seeds set upon the surface of the ground before the soil has decided whether to receive them.
Some are taken up at once. They follow the grooves already worn—rising, moving, preparing—steps learned so well they require no choosing. The body knows them. The hands reach where they always have. The day begins itself, framed by habit, smooth and serviceable, asking little beyond repetition and offering little beyond its return.
Other thoughts linger. They do not move so easily. They settle into the quiet and remain there, testing it. They come without promise of comfort and without a clear ending, carrying only a direction not yet named. To some, they sound like obligation, the pull of what must be done despite reluctance. To others, they stir as desire, less certain and more costly, asking for more than attention. Their weight is felt before their purpose is known.
Many will name such stirrings hope and let them pass. Ease makes room for this. The morning offers its familiar path, wide and ready, requiring no resistance. For those who step into it, the moment slips away unnoticed, and the day settles quickly into its accustomed course.
But there are those who remain awake to the pressure of it. They lie still a while longer, feeling where the thought presses and does not release. It returns, again and again, touching places long avoided, calling attention to limits that have held not by strength, but by habit. What once felt too costly begins to feel merely untried.
Yet delay carries its own price. To linger too long is to feel the day choose on one’s behalf. The easier path does not wait; it opens itself at once, and its pull grows stronger with each moment given to hesitation.
For the one who rises differently, the cost is immediate. The current resists. Habit pulls hard at the limbs. Each movement must be chosen, each step set with intention, pressing against a course worn smooth by years of return. What lies upstream offers no comfort at first—only effort, uncertainty, and the quiet strain of going against what is easy. Yet it is there, in that resistance, that clarity begins to form, earned slowly, and held only by those willing to bear its weight.
© 2026 Steven Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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