A morning of quiet joy

 It’s 8:49 AM, and I’m cocooned in my cozy bed, wrapped in the comforting warmth of my soft blanket. Today feels good—no particular reason, just an unshakable sense of optimism. The sun shines bright and golden outside my window, its light pouring in through the crevices of the blinds. Two corners of my room are bathed in sunlight, glowing softly against the light blue walls. It’s funny how the sunshine transforms them into something prettier, something alive.

You might think I’ve slept in late, but I’ve been awake for over an hour. However, "awake" doesn’t necessarily mean "active." My most significant accomplishments so far? Opening the door twice for the house help, sitting upright on my bed, stepping downstairs to stand in the sun for a few minutes, and taking an ethicality test this morning. It was the classic trolley problem—a scenario that challenges you to choose between sacrificing one life to save many or letting events unfold to save one at the cost of others. I found myself leaning toward the utilitarian approach: the greater good for the greatest number. It’s a decision that feels logical, but it’s never simple when morality is at stake. Even now, as I sit here, the question lingers—a quiet undercurrent to my morning thoughts.

The anxiety and overthinking that kept me company through the night now seem like distant whispers. Those restless thoughts, once a storm swirling in my mind, have been put to rest by the calm of this morning. It’s as though the first light of day brought with it a truce—a moment of peace where I can just breathe. My mind, so often caught in loops of worry, now feels as light and open as the soft blue sky outside.

When the sun shines, life feels a little less sad. There’s something about its warmth and brightness that melts away some of the heaviness. I’ve never been a fan of yellow—it’s too loud, too bold for my liking. Yet, I can’t deny that it’s a color of positivity. The sunlight, with its golden hues, carries a quiet reassurance, as if it’s whispering that things will be okay. It softens the edges of everything, turning even the simplest moments into something hopeful.

My room is silent, save for the sounds that weave in from around me. There’s the persistent drip of a leaking tap in the adjoining washroom. I’ve devised a specific angle for the tap to stop the drip—it’s hardly a plumbing solution, but it works. Outside, the distant hum of trucks and lorries fills the air, punctuated by the rumble of an auto carrying water to nearby colonies. A train whistle floats through the stillness, a sound I’ve grown so accustomed to that I rarely notice it anymore. But this morning, it feels special, like a gentle reminder of life moving steadily on.

I still have nearly an hour before the inevitable rush to get ready for work—a flurry of movement and minor panic. For now, though, I savor the quiet. This moment of stillness feels like an indulgence, a luxury even. I’ve come to realize that doing nothing isn’t wasted time; it’s the most peaceful part of my day.

So here I sit, unhurried and observant, watching the sunlight, listening to the whispers of my morning, and enjoying this simple, quiet joy.