Every morning, like clockwork, the cicadas start their symphony at precisely 5:30 a.m. I'm convinced they have some sort of insect orchestra conductor, baton in hand, ready to cue the first screech. There's no snooze button for this alarm, no gentle fade-in like those fancy wake-up lights. It's more like a sudden, blaring symphony of nature's noisiest members, who apparently never got the memo about indoor voices.
At first, the sound is faint, almost gentle. You think maybe, just maybe, you can drift back to sleep. But within seconds, the chorus swells. Suddenly, it feels like you're lying in the middle of an open-air concert—front row seats to the loudest, most persistent performers you've ever encountered. Forget counting sheep; now it's all about counting the decibels.
I'll admit, there's something almost comical about the whole thing. Cicadas are the quintessential soundtrack to summer, an annual reminder that the warm months are in full swing. But that knowledge doesn't make it any easier to be jolted awake by their cacophony before the sun has fully risen. There's a certain absurdity in being roused from your dreams by creatures that are, by all accounts, tiny compared to the noise they make. If cicadas had personalities, I imagine they'd be the type to throw wild parties without ever considering the neighbours.
As the days go by, you start to develop a strange kind of acceptance. You know it's coming, you know you can't stop it, so you might as well embrace it. Maybe you even start to see the humour in it – how nature, in all its glory, insists on greeting you with such enthusiasm every single morning. The cicadas, it seems, have decided that the best way to start the day is with a bang, and they're determined to make sure you're along for the ride.
It's not just the volume that's impressive; it's the persistence. These little guys have stamina. I've tried everything to block out the sound—earplugs, white noise machines, even burying my head under a pillow—but nothing can drown out the sheer determination of a full-blown cicada chorus. They're like the morning people of the insect world, full of energy and ready to seize the day, while the rest of us are still trying to remember how to open our eyes.
And yet, despite the initial annoyance, there's a strange comfort in the routine. The cicadas are like nature's alarm clock, reminding me that another summer day is beginning. Sure, it's not the most peaceful wake-up call, but it's a signal that the world is alive and buzzing with activity, even at this early hour. It's a reminder that summer is fleeting, and before I know it, the cicadas will be silent, the mornings cooler, and I'll be waking up to the quiet chill of autumn.
So, for now, I'll take the cicadas, with all their noise and vigour. I'll smile at the absurdity of being roused from sleep by such tiny creatures, and I'll try to appreciate the fact that I'm awake to experience another summer morning, whether I was ready for it or not. After all, there's something undeniably lively about being greeted by the cicadas each day – a reminder that life, in all its noisy, chaotic glory, is meant to be lived to the fullest.