The late nights are not enough for these people, who all seem so bountifully gifted with ever-significant, always-deepening stories. And so in devotion to such things (to the whirling nebula of another's thoughts, another's feelings, lives alike and unlike) I see the single-digit hours too often, stargazing. These nights are the life-invent nights, those vespers that chase lurking truths from hidden places: we publish ourselves to one another in sleep-slurred words yet clairvoyant in accounting what has been, is now, may yet be (hopefully).
And so sleep pounds on into me begrudgingly, my head all lead hitting the pillow, thud. And it comes to be that the world of dreams flows in streams of exhaustion, a requited respite by the all-packed day. Who am I to deserve such astonishing leisure, stuffed to straining with the fruits of harder working minds than mine?
Morning comes. Oh no, past alarm and time to go, clothes unwashed and homework thrown in bags misplaced, gusted away. Boiling water while showering while updating phone, mapping walks and counting steps toward maximal brevity, plans for me to somehow succeed in seeing everything through. Fast the only virtue. Aeropress mashed over a glass agape, sloshing-splashing I make my way.
Collide into class.
I may not be long for the fervor of such activity. My body and mind will only comply with each other for so long. Now is that electric excitement which arcs to fuze communion, brilliant in a way that evades all but partial knowledge: my thoughts wear analogy to shield its glare. Until I am worn, and must more responsibly take myself, this is feast after famine: after fast, broken fast.