The Threshold Hour

Morning glimmers at the edge of knowing— that uncertain hour when the pillow still holds you but light insists through the curtains, and your body remembers the weight of breath.

You are neither here nor there, suspended in the amber of almost-waking, where dreams dissolve like sugar in warm water and thoughts arrive unbidden, strange as visitors.

The world reassembles itself slowly: a bird call, the hum of the street, your own hand becoming real again in the gathering day.

This is the tender moment before you become yourself, when you could still slip back or leap forward— choosing which world to inhabit.