A childhood ritual, my father used to read my baby brother and I one story before bed every night, and if we were lucky sometimes two. Sending us off to dreamland with "The Monster at the End of this Book" or "Stella Luna", Dad read all of our favorite stories with the best voices and never messed up.
College disregards bedtimes and those stories that I knew by heart (and still know almost as well) with unrelenting passion. How I find myself breezing through midnight and glancing at 1:00 AM night after night still throws me for a loop when I think back to my Dad, Rory, Grover, Stella, and all the rest of the bedtime crew.
If you happen to read this blog, or even if you have run into me at this late hour, you'll already know particularly well that I'm no "early to bed, early to rise" kind of gal. I like to think that the irony of my fear of the dark fuels my musings as night creeps its sleepy head into morning. Previous knowledge of my ever-present insomnia may have prepared you for said musings- not often can these blogposts be decipherable into pearls of wisdom unless you've been rehearsed in the Experience.
That being said, I'm still up.
I'm still awake.
I'm still pressing repeat on my homework playlist for the third or fourth time.
I'm still thinking.
I wish this blog had some sort of direction and cause. It's beginnings were so noble-
A year in the life of an eighteen-year-old who thought she had something to say.
An eighteen-year-old who was on a mission to be great, to be heard.
An eighteen-year-old with bedtime stories in tow and a sunrise always in sight.
2012 brought a nineteen-year-old, who dusted off the eighteen-year-old's once noble endeavor.
The nineteen-year-old smiled at the sunrise and greeted it with tired eyes.
This nineteen-year-old misses bedtime stories.
live simply.
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