Ham

Ham stepped out into the lank half light of the colorless morning, and began his day. The uncommitted sun pondered just below the horizon, and the brilliant possibility of daybreak remained a mystery. It was easy for Ham to move on autopilot. His clothes all matched, and only varied in color. His commute was one long uncomplicated stretch, much like his day, followed by a night of nearly robotic leisure and the reset of sleep. Habit found him easily, his day to day activities stickily clotting together until they were routine. Ham recognized this in himself but could never make the decision to change. Potential options hung in a fog, inarticulated, and when Ham opened his mouth to speak for one it was like he suddenly spoke no language, and possessed only the impressionist notion of the idea.

It was the time of year that the sun would break the horizon on his drive, and Ham felt the weight of a man who measures time by seasons instead of days. It was the same time of year the sun twisted far enough North to shine directly in his face as it rose, making him close the blinds against the rays. He looked to where the red coal sat nearly breaching the far off hills, and was suddenly given a point of reference he had never seen before. Using the sun as his locus he felt the pivot and turn of his body on the suddenly winding road. It ranged from one ear to the other, sometimes nearly over his shoulder, making his head feel light, and warping the straight track he was on. Arriving at work the building seemed to sit at a new angle, with a different posture. Ham looked out the window over his desk, and his face was washed in gleaming color, he reached for the blinds but hesitated.