Normality

I am waking up. It's six o clock in the morning. It's a Friday, which translates to Sunday in non Islamic countries. It's dawn, with the sky still being greyish. Since it's Friday-Sunday, I curl myself back into the warm bedsheets. Sleep for two additional hours. It's eight when I wake up again. I reach my hand out of my bed and open the curtains slightly. From where I lie, I can see trees, moving slow with the morning breeze, in between traces of blue sky and light of rising sun. Fresh air is coming in through the open window. Now my room mate switches on her radio, and I can hear low tones of music through the thin wall. Sometimes she sings in line with the music. From the garden, I notice the watchman moving around. Sometimes a car is driving by. I take my book and start reading, while being still half covered in bedsheets and dreams.
But while I attempt to read, there is only one real thought in my mind. That this is one of the few moments when life in Afghanistan feels normal.