Sun

When I woke up early this morning to conduct an impromptu coughing fit I noticed there was already a hint of dawn coming through the windows. What’s this? It was only just after six, and already the unforgiving interrogation lamp that is the sun is leaping above the horizon with the enthusiasm of my grade 9 gymnastics teacher rallying us with “Up and at em!” before our semiannual six hundred mile sprint.

I hated him and I hate the sun. Call it reverse seasonal affective disorder if you must, but it’s hardly a disorder if you think about it. Despite the star-stippled portrayals of outer space in the movies, most of it is actually pitch black. It’s only when you approach a galaxy—but why would you?—that you can see any light.

Light is the exception, so of course I would find it unsettling. In fact sunlight makes me feel like I’ve been scrubbed with steel wool and lowered slowly into a vat of mustard. Summer’s coming, people, that much is clear, and it’s time to tin foil the windows.

Related Tales

» “What the Other Hand Is Doing” (26 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal II” (03 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal” (31 of Mar, 2003)