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I. The Awakening of Words
There’s a sacred moment in the morning silence — before the coffee drips into the pot, before sunlight peeks through the curtains — when your eyes open. Not just your physical eyes, but those of the soul. And in that stillness, the first word rises: warm, soft, intimate.

“Good morning.”

Simple? Perhaps. Innocent? Never.

Have you ever noticed how one word can change your entire day?

I’m not just talking about words spoken aloud — to mirrors, coworkers, or loved ones. I’m talking about the words whispered within you. Like wind rustling dry leaves. Like a forgotten prayer. Like a curse disguised as habit. These — the invisible, the intimate, the repeated — are the threads weaving the fabric of your daily destiny.

“Good morning” isn’t just a greeting. It’s an invitation. A decree. An act of faith.

And what you say to yourself is shaping far more than you realize.

II. The Secret Grammar of the Soul
If literature teaches us anything, it’s this: words are not mere symbols. They are spells.

Shakespeare knew it when Hamlet murmured, “To be, or not to be” — and with those five syllables, cracked open the abyss of existence. Clarice Lispector knew it when she wrote “The Hour of the Star” and let Macabéa whisper, “I want” — revealing the tragedy of belated self-awareness. Words, when spoken with intention — even silently — create realities.

You wake up. And before your feet touch the floor, you’re already speaking to yourself. Not always in full sentences, but in fragments, tones, emotions masquerading as thoughts:

“Ugh, again…”
“Will today even work out?”
“Just another same-old day…”
“Come on, get up.”

These phrases — these micro-poems of routine — are the opening lines of your daily epic. And like any great poem, they carry rhythm, weight, intention. They set the stage for what’s to come. If you begin with lament, the day will echo lament. If you begin with affirmation — even a timid one — the universe, like a good reader, will rise to meet you.

Literature teaches us: the narrator shapes the story. And you, reader of your own life, are also its narrator.

III. “Good Morning” as a Literary Act
Imagine, for a moment, that each morning is Chapter One of a novel. You are the protagonist. The setting? Your bedroom, your city, your weary or rested body. The conflict? The day ahead — with its uncertainties, obligations, surprises. And the opening line? “Good morning.”

This phrase, seemingly mundane, is your incipit — your solemn beginning, your call to adventure. It can be spoken with irony, exhaustion, hope, or defiance. But it will be spoken. And how you speak it determines the tone of everything that follows.

In literature, we call this narrative tone. A novel that opens with “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” (Dickens) prepares us for contradictions, dualities, tensions. One that begins with “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice” (García Márquez) plunges us into mythic, cyclical time, where past and future blur.

And you? What’s the tone of your “good morning”?

If it’s laced with sarcasm — “Oh, ‘good’ morning…” — you’re writing a cynical novel where nothing goes right, where the world is hostile. If it’s muttered with resignation — “Good morning… again.” — you’re in a realist drama where routine crushes the spirit. But if it’s declared with intention — “Good morning. Today will be different.” — you’re in a novel of transformation. A coming-of-age story for the adult soul.

“Good morning” is your incipit — your solemn beginning, your call to adventure. Don’t underestimate it.

IV. The Inner Monologue: Your Omniscient Narrator
In literature, the omniscient narrator knows all: thoughts, desires, fears, secrets. They guide the reader, interpret events, give weight to actions. In your life, who plays that role? You do.

Your inner monologue — what you repeat to yourself throughout the day — is the narrative voice of your existence. And like any narrator, it can be compassionate or cruel, encouraging or destructive.

“You just can’t do it.”
“Failing again? Pathetic.”
“No one gets you.”
“Do I even deserve this?”

These aren’t thoughts. They’re verdicts. And they condemn — or absolve — the main character: you.

I’ve read novels where the narrator tortures the protagonist with irony and disdain. Heavy, suffocating reads. Dostoevsky did it to Raskolnikov. Kafka, to K. But those are fictional characters. You are not.

You can choose your narrative tone. You can replace the sarcastic narrator with the compassionate one. You can turn the voice that judges you into the voice that holds you.

Try this tomorrow, upon waking:

“Good morning. You’re here. That alone is a miracle.”
“Good morning. Today, you get to begin again — always.”
“Good morning. What do you need to hear today?”

These aren’t shallow self-help phrases. They’re literary acts of soul-revision. They’re rewritings of your personal narrative. As if you took the manuscript of your life, grabbed a red pen, crossed out the lines of self-deprecation, and scribbled in the margins: “Here, there will be hope. Here, there will be lightness.”

V. Words as Spells — And How to Break Them
In magical traditions, words hold power. “Abracadabra.” “Hocus pocus.” “Sim sala bim.” The language doesn’t matter — the principle does: sound creates reality. In modern psychology, we call this autosuggestion. In literature, narrative enchantment.

Every day, you’re casting spells on yourself.

“I can’t.” → Spell of paralysis.
“It’ll never work.” → Spell of preemptive defeat.
“I’m a failure.” → Spell of negative identity.

And the saddest part? You don’t even realize you’re doing it. Like a character in a gothic tale, unknowingly repeating the curse that binds them.

But if words can curse, they can also liberate.

“I’m learning.” → Spell of growth.
“This is temporary.” → Spell of perspective.
“I deserve to try again.” → Spell of dignity.

British writer Neil Gaiman, in his commencement speech at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, said: “Remember: your work is important. Art is important. The stories you tell change the world.” But before they change the world, stories change you. And stories begin with the words you choose — especially the ones you whisper to yourself at dawn.

VI. The Daily Rewrite — A Literary Exercise
Practical proposal (yes, even literature lovers need practice): For one week, upon waking, write down the very first sentence that comes to mind. Don’t judge. Just write. Then, at night, reread it. What tone dominates? What narrator is in charge?

In week two, try something radical: rewrite that sentence. Transform it. Don’t lie — literature hates falseness — but rewrite with intention.

Examples:

Original: “Ugh, here we go again…”
Rewritten: “Here we go — and today, I’ll carry something new with me.”

Original: “I have so much to do… I’m drowning.”
Rewritten: “I have much to do — and I’ll begin with what lets me breathe.”

Original: “No one understands me.”
Rewritten: “Today, I’ll seek someone who listens — and I’ll listen to myself first.”

This isn’t toxic positivity. It’s narrative awareness. It’s taking the reins of your story. It’s being author, narrator, and protagonist all at once — and refusing to let chance, trauma, or habit write for you.

VII. The Classics Knew — And So Can You
Remember Odysseus, in Homer, whispering to himself amid storms: “I will persist.” Remember Dante, at the start of The Divine Comedy, lost in the dark wood, yet still able to say: “And then I saw the stars.” Remember Elizabeth Bennet, in Pride and Prejudice, murmuring to herself that she won’t bow to what she doesn’t believe — even if it costs her solitude.

Great literary characters aren’t immune to suffering. They’re immune to narrative surrender. They don’t let pain write the ending. They rewrite, resist, persist.

So can you.

VIII. The Morning Ritual — Your Literary Ceremony
Turn your “good morning” into a ritual. Not a mechanical habit, but a conscious act. Like a poet before a blank page. Like a playwright before the curtain rises.

Sit in bed, eyes still closed. Breathe. And say — aloud, if you can — a sentence you need to hear. Not what others expect. Not what society demands. What you, deep in your soul, need to hear to move forward.

It might be:

“You are enough.”
“Today doesn’t need to be perfect — just present.”
“You’ve survived so many battles. This one will pass too.”
“I’m with you. Even now.”

These phrases are your mantras. Your verses. Your opening paragraphs. They won’t erase problems — but they’ll change the place from which you face them. And that, dear reader, changes everything.

IX. Conclusion: Write Your Own “Good Morning”
You are not hostage to how you feel when you wake up. You are the author of what you choose to feel. And that choice begins with one word. Just one.

“Good morning.”

But not just any “good morning.” Yours. The one that carries your story, your scars, your hopes. The one that doesn’t deny pain but refuses to be defined by it. The one that knows morning is always a blank page — and that you have the right, the duty, the honor to write it.

The words you say to yourself are shaping more than you imagine. They’re writing your daily novel. Setting the mood, the conflict, the resolution. Silently deciding whether you’ll be tragedy, comedy, drama, or lyric poem.

So tomorrow, when you open your eyes, remember: you’re not just waking up. You’re beginning a new chapter. And you — only you — choose the first sentence.

Make it worthy of you. Make it true. Make it, even amid the storm, say:

“Good morning. I am here. And that is already a beginning.”

P.S. — An Invitation to Read Yourself
If you love literature, then you know: the best books don’t show us perfect worlds. They reveal characters who, despite everything, keep going. Who rewrite their destinies. Who find beauty in chaos.

You are that character.

And your “good morning” is the first line of the poem you haven’t finished writing yet.

Keep writing.