Energy is not a thing you get from food. Not for me. It is a kind of small charge. A static that you find. It comes from small things. Things that are not meant to give you energy.
The morning is one of these things. A walk. The air is cold. The sun is not up yet. The world is grey. The sky is a thin line of pink. A small line. It is not much. But it is a promise. It says that the day will come. And that is a kind of energy. A hope. A slow charge.
I had a friend once. He did not like mornings. He did not see the promise. We were on a road trip. The road was long. The night was longer. The car was quiet. We were tired. He was sleeping in his seat. I was driving. The radio was on. A soft hum. I was tired. A deep tired.
Then the sun came up. It hit a small town. A small town with a small church. The steeple was tall. It caught the light. Just the top of it. The rest of the town was still in the dark. It was a small thing. A moment. The car was moving. The world was still. A feeling.
I felt a charge. A small one. It was enough. It was enough to keep driving. Enough to keep the hum of the radio a comfort. Enough to see the day. I did not wake him. He would not have understood. He would have missed the quiet. He would have missed the small, bright line of the promise.
I find energy in quiet places. A good book. A good sentence. A cup of tea. A warm cup. A small cup that holds a great deal of warmth. These things. They do not give me energy. They remind me that I have it. It is already there. Just sleeping. Waiting for a good sentence. A quiet morning. A small, bright line.
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