something cliché

The drops settled heavily on the glass. My skin pricked as the sun rubbed uncomfortably up my arm. The night's chill slowly settling down, drawing itself into the clamminess of the air as the summer's morning sun warmed the world too quickly. I was lost. In that cast iron chair on the porch, chilled by the dawn, I soaked in the sunrise. Watching another day fall over my small, unruly stretch of grass, gravel and brush was comforting, in a way. It was the regularity of it, the promise, the constancy of change. Time bloomed forward effortlessly, simply. I always felt like I was meeting face to face with a deep and beautiful truth when I stayed up this long, waiting out the darkness. Waking up to it was never this way, I was always too dazed with sleep to really feel anything other than the clocks ticking away. The urgent push to move, to ready, to leave. No, it was different this way - like we were equals, like I'd kept in stride with time. I even sort of loved the tiredness that came a few hours later. The true weight of sleep always fell so heavily after these mornings. The crushing force of it reassuring me I really am human. I loved giving in to that feeling.