I’m a terrible early riser. When my alarm goes off in the morning, my half-asleep logic keeps insisting that it’s okay to reset for ten more minutes, seven more minutes, three more minutes… On the rare occasions when I actually get myself up and going, though, I always wonder why I don’t do so more often.

Mornings can be magical, somehow — early mornings before the hustle and bustle of rush hour starts. In Southern California, where I go to school, mornings are usually foggy. A faint mist hangs in the air, gently kissing my cheeks as I walk. It’s almost perfectly silent, and what sounds I do hear are both muted and solitary, instead of competing with the dull roar of hundreds of other sounds. The light, too, is almost enchanting. It’s mostly grey, and not a depressing grey, but a warm, peaceful sort of grey.

In this silence and this stillness, I can almost imagine that I have the world all to myself.

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