I wake up fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off, and stumble out of bed to check it to make sure it will go off at the correct time. Isn't that silly? I could have just started my day right then but instead I delay it until the very last instant.
An insistent beeping, and my fiance rolls over groggily and I crawl off the bed like a drunkard, reeling around. I hit the button and shuffle into the bathroom. I reach instinctively for the tap, pull up the tab to route the water to the showerhead, and turn the handle to the middle, standing straight up. Something brushes by the door, suddenly exposing the warm steam of the bathroom to escape into the general house.
"Do you always shower in the dark?"
"Yes."
But it's not purely darkness, it's just the gentle half-light of six in the morning. I'm actually afraid of the dark. I don't know if it's paranoia or not, but I always see humanoid shapes in very mundane things, like a vacuum handle. When I'm finished washing, I wrap my short hair up in a towel and go back to bed, setting the alarm again for an hour hence. It's utterly heathen, but I've found that my sleep is never as precious as that stolen hour and I always remember the dreams from that period more clearly.
I never stop and enjoy the sunrise. It's never as beautiful as the sunset, it's too muted for it to titillate me.
Only one other portion of my day reflects that ease ... the stillness of an office recently entered, the lights still off, the doors still locked. No one is at the reception counter yet to bid me good morning or to interrupt my thoughts. I have a few precious moments of quasi-darkness in which to savor the silence and the oddity of a workplace not yet bustling with activity.
I think it's like falling asleep, that in-between period, but I'm never awake for it to remember what that's like.