Before Daybreak

My house is quiet. If this were anytime other than 5:30 am, I would be concerned. I move around my room with turning on any lights. I love that I can do that; that my room is familiar and comfortable enough to move without any guide, light or otherwise. There's a lamp post just outside my window, and sometimes I'll open the blinds just a crack. There are few cars at this time of morning, but those few travellers pass under the light, and I watch as their shadows form a distorted likeness of the car.

After moving around for a few minutes, I'm sure I won't fall asleep again so I crawl back under my covers, still warm and smelling of sleep. My book lies on the carpet from the night before, and I reach down to grab it. It's pages are stained and dog-eared, evidence of a good long life. Maybe I'll finish the chapter from last night or maybe I'll turn back to my favorite part, and read it again.

I love this silence and solitude. Early mornings are when I can hear my own thoughts instead of being bombarded with everyone else's. I can be most honest, most open before the world kicks off its blanket of darkness and revels in light. As I sit with a glass of water and my fingers perched upon the keys, I'm reminded that a moment of peace is worth more than all the "excitement" in a day. I wouldn't trade this time for anything-- not even more sleep.