The Five O’Clock in the Morning Crowd

I was part of the five o’clock morning crowd for a while.

Stirred awake by restlessness, I’d wander out in my Star Wars pajamas with my Yellow American Spirits and trusty Bic lighter in my drawstring sweatpants and I’d sit on the patio by the cafeteria with a motley crew of misfits sipping black coffee in the pre-dawn humidity of South Florida heat.

Drowsy off of no sleep or else sleep hungover from Trazodone, we’d elucidate our bizarre dreams to each other while filling up the ashtray. One gentleman, wiry off of a bad bender, compelled us with his theory about “3 Moons”; another, a traveling troubadour with a penchant for psychedelics and Costa Rica, would tells us about talking hallucinogens near waterfalls with mossy frogs;

I would sit, my Carrie Fisher book beside me as an emblem of comfort, my cigarettes close at hand. I suppose I bring this up now because I’ve been sleeping past 9:00am for the first time in months, despite saying I’ll wake up at 7:00am.

When I do get up, and when I truly reckon with myself about my depression that’s seeped in once more, I brew myself several cups of strong, black coffee rich as midnight with subtle traces of praline and petrichor; I wander out to the patio where the rust-colored, potbellied lizard rests on the cobblestones, faithful as a dog.

That seam in my heart seems to delicately flap in the wind with the torrential downpours as they come in and I can see why slumber is so damned attractive these days.