It’s the morning, always. The time I make my wishes. Only then I’m daring enough to give my feelings a form. I turn them into actual sentences in my head.
”I wish I could talk to Hemer today.”
”I wish he would notice me and look at me.”
”I wish I’d have some time to spend by just looking at him.”
Sometimes I get more daring than that.
”I wish Hemer would feel as curious about me as I feel about him.”
”I wish he would tell me he wants to get to know me.”
”I wish he would show me he feels the same way about me as I feel about him.”
I could never think anything like this at night. For that, I’m always all too depressed since the truest of my wishes never come true. I have no hope when I go to sleep.
During the day I can’t allow myself to form those daring words again. I have hope, though. I swing between optimism and pessimism. But I fear that I might stop functioning properly due to my feelings taking over me, if I actually wished by the words.
Therefore, it’s the morning. It’s the new day that lights up my hope. I’m not afraid to think:
”There are so many mornings in this world it wouldn’t make any sense for none of them to bring a great happiness. There are so many people in this world it wouldn’t make any sense for none of them to receive it. Even if it was just one morning of happiness and one person in the whole world who could receive it, it wouldn’t be entirely impossible for the morning to be this morning and the person to be me.”
I don’t literally think like this, of course. My happiness would also be impossible if every other person I knew was unhappy. But the thing is, I have seen happiness. And by thinking like this, I make it easier for myself to believe it might actually be waiting for me too.
So, at every sunrise, I keep making my morning wishes.
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