Mystique of Sunlight
By R.S. Ivory

I remember, rather fervently, lying awake in bed one morning when all of a sudden I was seized by the deepest, darkest despair ever to touch my soul. The snow fell lightly outside my window, lazily drifting down to join the sea of white that had covered our city the previous night. Upon the wings of coldest purity had Change soared into view, the bitter wind and the blade-sharp cold trumpeting its grandiose arrival. The sky above remained blank, as if not wishing to detract from the glory of the first snow of the season. All around me it fell, not stopping, not pausing; just diving towards the ground. It seemed strange to me that change would be so monotonous, but it was, at least for that day.

I didn’t want to leave my bed that morning. The stark opposite of anything pleasant smirked at me through my window, encouraging me to stay in my warm, friendly bed. My bed was a miracle to me; wherever I dared to move or stretch or extend within its confinement I was greeted with the gentlest caress of the sheets on my bare legs. Outside you may be as free as a bird, but you’ll rarely find the comfort or the love that can be found in one’s bed.

Once again I turned my gaze to the window. Two single-hung casements, positioned side by side, with charming oak trim painted an ancient white stared back at me. I adored my window. There was something about the compilation of glass panes and wood that meant an incredible amount to me. I found this strange, my inability to identify exactly what it was troubled me. What was so endearing about this thing, this aspect of my somewhat featureless room, what characteristic bound this white-encased portal to me?

It was early, and the darkness of the morn continued to envelop me. I continued to ponder about the conundrum the stood before me. My eyes trailed along the wood, searching for the component that engendered the veneration that billowed and swelled inside me. This was a puzzle, and the answer was next to me, silently waiting to be discovered, breathing slowly and evenly like a child lost deep in a reverie. Could it be the morphed reflections of my face in the hand-blown glass, or the image of the fresh greenery that danced through the window?

It was at this moment that the sun rose. The rise of the sun is steady; evenly the star creeps up the sky till it blazingly reaches the climax of its cycle. The sunlight burst through my window. It poured into the room, filling every portion, every crevasse, every inch of the room. It was complete, yet gentle. The change the room experienced was phenomenal, yet not startling or disturbing. I remained in my bed, curiously observing the light as it rapidly climbed up the walls and crept farther along the floors. It reached my bed, and swathed my body in brilliant light. The sunlight dripped onto my bodice, warming me and filling me. The room was transformed.

It was such a simple metamorphosis. The transmutation of the appearance of my room immediately spurred a change in my mentality. The unexplained gloom that had dwelt within me earlier that morning had melted at the sight of such luminous radiance, and yet the transformation was so simple and uncomplicated. The addition of natural light to my room had robbed the area of all seemingly infinite doubt. The landscape that dwelt on the other side of my window no longer smirked at me, but beckoned me.

I stood up and stretched. Fumbling around my closet, the ancient plaid scarf that I had acquired years ago was found and wrapped several times around my neck. I opened the door and exited the room.