I rise early.
Here, at the end of winter and on the tip of spring, it is dark twice in my day - morning and evening.
When I'm at school, I share one, small room with a roommate who sleeps late. So until the sun rises (an hour or two after I do) I patter around with only the street lamps outside for light. I enjoy the dark. It makes me move slowly, mindfully. When my toes first touch the floor I go to the window to look at the weather: Is there snow on the neighbor's roofs? Are there puddles in the parking lot below? Then I dress, make my tea in our hall's common room, and slip back into our room to eat my breakfast (usually, it's bircher muesli, made the night before). I sit at my desk, sideways in my chair so I can watch the cars outside - slow white lights shining through the streets. I know the regulars by now (mostly professors). There is a man and his little white dog I see taking a walk every day at 6:30am on the dot. Slowly the sun comes up. First it is only a rosy haze, then - hopefully - it becomes sharp and golden.
In the evenings, I retreat back into the cocoon of our room again. I make a nest of pillows. I pick a book and read until my eyes ache. Sometimes it's a book for pleasure. More often, it's a book for class.
I go to sleep early, like an old lady.
When I'm home, I slip downstairs before even my early bird younger brothers. I put the kettle on. I dare to run the blender to make my kale-banana-walnut butter smoothies. From my own bedroom, I watch the sun come up.