Dawn bloomed quickly this morning. Shielded by the cocoon of my dreamscape, I evaded it again. We shouldn’t keep passing one another like ships in the night, Dawn and I. The more it happens, the easier it gets. Even when I witness the dawn, I somehow miss it nonetheless.
Yesterday the sunrise exploded at my back. Too preoccupied with walking to work, both of us spent the day in a sea of clouds. It’s part of Portland, those cloudy days. Our music cultivates the mood and Powell’s fuels the addiction that gets us through the day and puts us down for sleep at night.
Everything gets meditative on Sunday. Sundays used to be the Friday of my work week. Rising at six in the morning and working until six at night, I found meaning in those days.
Two o’clock: my apron was folded and tucked beneath the counter at the Coffee Shop. Sleepy Sunday mornings felt like my reward for a long week of work and school.
Two fifteen: my purse was locked up at the Historical Society. It was never hard work at the museum gift shop, but it felt good to volunteer.
Two thirty: my first text message of the day from the boyfriend at home. He worked late nights at a condo building and never slept before three a.m.
Brief meetings in the park, as we exchanged work days, became the crux of our relationship. I never slept enough. Waiting up at night, thinking that could mend the rending of our home, did nothing more than weaken my body. I became a walking shadow of what I had been and Sundays became too much. I quit my volunteer job. It was my decision. I needed more sleep.
Sleep was really the lesser of the things I needed. Independence. Now that would have done me a world of good.
So today, when I woke up considerably later than the dawn, I reveled in my empty bed. I put on my worst music and made a disgusting cup of hazelnut coffee. Dolled up and ready for work, I wrote this post. And I’m going to go to work and be happy in the knowledge that I got enough sleep last night. And I’m in love. And I can have both.