I like being up early. I like the way the light falls grey, the way it brightens, the way the sunrise sends gold warmth into the room to awaken it. Dawn makes me think of the smell of rain about to fall, petrichor, rain on dust. The bittersweet taste of English Breakfast tea in France. The feel of gentle mist damp on my skin. The sound of wind chimes and birdsong. My images of France are all mornings, even the afternoons. Mornings are things of silence and contemplation and solitude.
I wish I woke up early more often. I tend to go to bed late, and then sleep for a long time, waking up sometimes in the night to open my eyes, look around, and then go back to sleep like a wary cat. I almost never wake up before nine o clock, which is a benefit of having no school to go to or places to be. I try to wake up at eight thirty, I have an alarm set, but I always end up lying in sleepy lethargy for thirty minutes as I gradually force myself awake, step by step. Pulling off my blankets so the warmth and coziness dissipates, keeping my eyes half-open to adjust to the light, gradually shifting and moving and yawning until I can push myself out of bed, the remnants of dreams falling away in my wake.
I like being up early, I just don’t like waking up early.