Up all night.

I stayed up until dawn. More specifically day-break. I ate at a diner with friends at 345 am. Not four, but we did leave then. As I crossed town, the sky blue with cold, is it summer yet?

I was reminded of my childhood nighttime wake-ups. Did my parents know? Every night for at least 3 years, I must have been around 9 to 12, I would wake at about 3 am. Of all the insomniacs, I was not one. I am still a heavy sleeper. Slept through a hurricane. Slept through a tree falling down. Slept through two trees falling down. I can sleep.

I'd wake up at 3. Most nights on the dot. Maybe that's what spurred my interest in literature. Normally, I'd read myself to sleep. But really, I didn't read myself to sleep, and I was only reminded of this today; I'd read myself till dawn, and dawn myself to sleep.

It's not that I was afraid of the dark. It's that dawn has always represented to me, a giving up. An exhausted admittance, that whatever fear that comes with the vulnerability of sleep, whether it be imagined childhood monsters, or the real life adult equivalent like debt, and home-invaders, dawn shows us that the world goes on, unrelentingly. Give in, dawn says, you've already waited too long. Just sleep.

Good night. I've already waited too long.