The slow radiants of the sun fell still weakly into the room through the open window above the head end of my bed. I rolled over toward the light, turned my head in the pillow and felt a cool breeze of air. It was the gust of wind that made me realize that I was awake. It was the first realization of the new day. The slow rise of aurora’s carriage at the western slopes must have awoken me. Maybe it had been the singing of the birds. The birds too were awake and a harmonious cacophony of chirps came from the highest branches of a Turkish pine.

Our bedroom’s window faced the east. From the mountain top’s ridge the sun slowly announced its rise. The days seemed shorter than they really were, as the sun rose later and sank sooner behind the mountains. I listened to the meditative disharmony that reminded me of Stockhausen’s spiral saxophones and shortwave receiver. The chaffinches hid in the tree’s roof and I could only distinguish the echoes of each other’s rivals marking their territories.

I couldn’t decide what had awoken me and undecided I lay daydreaming. One of many ways in which the brain displays its incapacity to register reality correctly, even within the limited margins of human perception, there was no reality that we were capable of linearly perceiving without the falsifications of the mind. Any logical system could only be defined within its own premises, knowing there were an endless number of imperceivable other systems following their own logic, and all being far from the truth. In consequence, the human mind was mistakenly conceived to be rich and complex but it was just incapable to be simply consistent and it was predictable only because its errors were endless.

This incapacity for truth was probably why there existed such a word in the first place, being without representation in the outer world, and why it played such a mesmorizing role in the imagination of human kind. Every generation, every era, men searched truth, they found it, priests called it god, scientists called it science, philosophers preferred simply truth, but it was all the same joke. And new men came, and searched for a better truth, namely their own falsity. This was their cycle of suffering, truth.

No matter how often one reminded oneself the adage of Apollo’s temple at Delphi, to know thyself, man would never be capable to know oneself, simply because the brain would prevent it. So now, I believed the breeze awoke me, maybe it did, maybe it didn’t, it had been licking my face all night and I had slept like a baby, and the only condition that had changed was the light. The same was true for the birds, but they did not wonder about truth. They had been up at dawn long before I opened my eyes and sang their song without thought. Perhaps the bird words were full of truth. And the changing of the light, the end of darkness, one could not tell one second apart from the next. It could have been pure randomness. What else than apparent chaos, the volatile chemistry of the body that governed the capricious will, could have woken me.

There was spring in the morning air. I had planted some seedlings a week ago, tomato in white plastic cups, aggurki makri or cucumber and piperia florinis or red peppers in earth colored pots. I had placed the pots and cups in the window sill. The white stems of the tomato and cucumbers had broken the surface of the ground and rose up toward the light. Along the side of the road purple lupin reminded me of the thyrsus of Dionysos, yellow white daisies and yellow gorse covered the bright landscape as if gold dust had fallen down, grains of the sun spread violently across the universe of the back garden, settling on the wet winter soil. Here and there a single blood red poppy disturbed the pattern, already signaling the advance of spring and progress of time ahead. But these signs were deceiving as well. Winter was not over, rain would torment the island again, fierce winds wrap the houses in long whistles, sucking out every last degree of warmth, the electricity would be lost again.