One thing I love about my parents’ house is not really the house. It’s its morning tranquility. Especially in the raining season when the morning you have is all gray.
There’s a soft humming sound of vehicles speeding on highways in the distance, chirpy sound of birds (one of these days, you only hear its sound, never the bird), the cool morning breeze billowing the drapes on the window and caressing my skin.
Despite the distant, constant sound of passing cars or trucks or whatever, it’s quiet and silent. It’s like when you open your eyes in the hour between five thirty to six thirty, you feel like you’re in a place where time stands still.
You feel rescued, saved, from the clamor of your everyday life. You become no one. Just a person lying idly on the bed, experiencing all this.
For a moment, you feel free from any imposing ideology, any code of conduct of society. You’re still. You’re clean. Those shackles around your feet, the idea of who you are, of who others think you are, torn off.
And you’re no one.
For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of–to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse