I am a writer. I cannot be anything else. How do I know? Because after being so unceremoniously awakened at 3 a.m. by my sister and becoming so alertly awake so as not to be able to sleep, I can only take solace in writing.
I tried not to but I couldn't help it. I lay in bed, intensely contemplating the swirls and tree rings of the honey brown wooden slats that hold up my sister's mattress above my head and wondering when they would cave in on me; I tried not to think of writing material or begin writing in my head, but it happened anyways.
My sister has gone back to sleep so I cannot turn on a light to use a pen and paper even though I desperately wish to stain my wrists with ink again over a new writing topic (because I am so considerate that I do not wish to wake her up as rudely as she did me); therefore I was forced to open my laptop and begin writing.
I wrote about my mother and menopause because I've wanted to for weeks and I've written about my father and my sister. It's only fair that it should be my mother's turn now. Next I shall write about my brother, my dog, my boyfriend, my friends (not in that order).... eventually about myself. But we all know that through all my other writing, I paint a portrait of myself anyways.
Now I find myself further awake to the point of being energetic. Any attempts to return to any state of slumber would be frustratingly in vain. I tried reading and exercise, which only served to further wake me up. I tried warm milk and tea, which only served to send me into the darkness of the hallway to fumble for the bathroom door.
I keep writing past 5 a.m. and wish someone else was awake. As much as I love writing, I want interaction with people. I want a conversation. Which is difficult at 5 a.m. because "decent" people are sleeping and I don't want to be that friend who wakes up with the following text: "hey, are you awake?" I can only imagine the response: "Well I (inser expletive here) am now." I am not the kind of person who thinks my friends should suffer with me through being awake. I shall enjoy my peaceful solitude and simply be awake.
So awake that I've stopped listening to music in favor of listening to the sprinkling pattern of rain against my window. Because the rain is clean and pure ... or as pure and clean as Georgia's acidic rain can get. Because the rain's song is almost as beautiful as Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah." I lean my head against the cool glass surface of the window, humming Mr. Wainwright's song in beat to the rain, peering into the darkness and trying to make out something. Funny how dark it is an hour before sunrise. An hour before sunset doesn't look to different than the sunset itself, in terms of brightness or darkness.
Speaking of sunrise, I believe I might just be awake to see my first sunrise of the summer. I haven't indulged in the simple pleasure of a sunrise for months or even years, because I'm normally asleep or I wake up for school or work, go shower and dress, and by the time I'm fully awake, the sun has risen. So I've decided to indulge in one of the simple pleasures of life.
I tried not to but I couldn't help it. I lay in bed, intensely contemplating the swirls and tree rings of the honey brown wooden slats that hold up my sister's mattress above my head and wondering when they would cave in on me; I tried not to think of writing material or begin writing in my head, but it happened anyways.
My sister has gone back to sleep so I cannot turn on a light to use a pen and paper even though I desperately wish to stain my wrists with ink again over a new writing topic (because I am so considerate that I do not wish to wake her up as rudely as she did me); therefore I was forced to open my laptop and begin writing.
I wrote about my mother and menopause because I've wanted to for weeks and I've written about my father and my sister. It's only fair that it should be my mother's turn now. Next I shall write about my brother, my dog, my boyfriend, my friends (not in that order).... eventually about myself. But we all know that through all my other writing, I paint a portrait of myself anyways.
Now I find myself further awake to the point of being energetic. Any attempts to return to any state of slumber would be frustratingly in vain. I tried reading and exercise, which only served to further wake me up. I tried warm milk and tea, which only served to send me into the darkness of the hallway to fumble for the bathroom door.
I keep writing past 5 a.m. and wish someone else was awake. As much as I love writing, I want interaction with people. I want a conversation. Which is difficult at 5 a.m. because "decent" people are sleeping and I don't want to be that friend who wakes up with the following text: "hey, are you awake?" I can only imagine the response: "Well I (inser expletive here) am now." I am not the kind of person who thinks my friends should suffer with me through being awake. I shall enjoy my peaceful solitude and simply be awake.
So awake that I've stopped listening to music in favor of listening to the sprinkling pattern of rain against my window. Because the rain is clean and pure ... or as pure and clean as Georgia's acidic rain can get. Because the rain's song is almost as beautiful as Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah." I lean my head against the cool glass surface of the window, humming Mr. Wainwright's song in beat to the rain, peering into the darkness and trying to make out something. Funny how dark it is an hour before sunrise. An hour before sunset doesn't look to different than the sunset itself, in terms of brightness or darkness.
Speaking of sunrise, I believe I might just be awake to see my first sunrise of the summer. I haven't indulged in the simple pleasure of a sunrise for months or even years, because I'm normally asleep or I wake up for school or work, go shower and dress, and by the time I'm fully awake, the sun has risen. So I've decided to indulge in one of the simple pleasures of life.
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