The WRITER

1:32hrs

I should sleep

3:03hrs

Today is Monday and I would have to be up early. I really should sleep.

Hours later…

Stretches limbs this way and that, smiles the glow consequent of a rested mind and refreshed body. Looks somewhat like the sated cat except, sadly, not as furry or as round. Looks at the watch encircling her wrist. Eyes pop, then a grin appears as her lips widen to reveal sparkling teeth and her eyes crinkle in delight. The ghost of a dimple twinkles in her cheeks. She thinks:

The shortest nap on a fulfilled mind is more restful than endless hours abed tossing and turning, dreaming of work left undone.

She is remembering days when her laptop was broken and she slept for what felt like hours on end. In those days, sleeping had been a chore. She had woken each day more dissatisfied and tired than she had slept.

The time is 5:42; and she is ready to face the day. Perhaps you know her. She is an owl. The quiet of night eclipses the noises that cloud her stories at other times. Its dark is the light against which she paints memoirs detailing other lives of other beings.

She is a writer.

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