Sunrise

I see the sun coming out as I look out the windows of the suite kitchen, and I am irrationally pleased with myself. At 6 AM some cars are on Memorial Drive already, early risers getting to work, but the real hustle bustle hasn't started. The city is quiet - all I hear is the soft whoosh of vehicles - but waking. The sky looks like a pastel watercolor, so well-mixed it almost seems fake. The colors are soft, and for some reason, I think, gentle. The whole scene is oddly soothing.

I've stayed up through the night working again, which might account for my strange happiness with the outside world right now because my head is doped with tiredness. It's becoming too common an occurrence, staying up half the night or the whole night, because it doesn't shake me anymore to see the clock ticking near 3 AM. I've come to accept that late nights are necessary here, at least for me, even though I also know they're not. I know I could be so much better. I could get sleep and be more effective - at least that's what I'd do if I were smarter - but the self-sustaining cycle of late nights and fatigue and sleeping through class has already begun. Once it starts, it's hard to get out.

The effect on my cognition is palpable. Now, it takes me much longer to get the same work done, to figure something out. I hate it. I know I'm hurting myself in the long run by not sleeping, and I don't even do good work through those long nights, while tired.

The only consolation is the mornings. I like being awake before everyone else. I've enjoyed it since I was little; especially on chilly winter mornings, when I'd pad down the hall, bare feet on cold hardwood, to turn up the heat in my house so it'd be warm when the rest of the family got up. At GBYSO camp, I'd sneak out of the girls' cabin, holding onto the screen door so it closed silently, to shower in the icy August Maine pre-dawn in the outdoor concrete-slab shower house. I still love the peace and quiet of mornings, even when all I want is to be one of those sleeping myself.