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I’m like a toddler at bedtime.

I’m not tired, I think, as fatigue lays latent in my veins.

So I write and roam around on Facebook and find other equally unproductive ways to sit in front of a screen. I start new projects and dream new weekend getaways.

Five more minutes, I think. Then 20 tick by. And 30. An hour. Suddenly it’s past my optimal bedtime that I never have the self-control to stick to. That time is more an imaginary line without meeting. A good idea I never act on.

I’m like a teenager in the morning.

I hit my snooze button repeatedly. I groan in protest and cover my eyes from the light streaming in through my windows.

I’m so tired, I think, willing the time between alarms to stretch into eternity. Why did I go to bed so late? I wonder. I am not 21 anymore.

I sink deeper into the pillows of clouds and float away on the wakes of my down comforter. A nanosecond passes, and the nagging of the alarm sounds again.

Five more minutes, I think.


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