The window of stillness

There is a window, early, before the world has decided what it wants from you. The light is still deciding too — pale, uncommitted, more rumour than day. The house is quiet in a way it will not be again until night.

Most mornings we miss it. We reach for the phone, and the day arrives all at once, fully formed and already behind. The window closes before we knew it was open.

We are interested in that window. Not in optimising it, or winning it, or turning it into a routine with steps. Only in noticing it. A few minutes that belong to no one — not the inbox, not the calendar, not the version of you the day will ask for.

Coffee is a good excuse to stay there a little longer. Not because it wakes you, but because making it takes a moment, and drinking it takes another, and in between you are simply standing in your kitchen with something warm in your hands, awake before you are needed.

That is the whole idea, really. Not more. Not faster. A held breath at the edge of the day, and something made well to fill it.

A few minutes that belong to no one.