s'morgens

Biking home through the streets of Amsterdam at six in the morning is one of the best feelings I know, weaving between the taxis and the police vans and the other swerving bikers, and I want to know the stories of every person I pass, especially the ones going home alone. Most people going home at six in the morning are going home alone; the newly paired migrate at three or four to enjoy those few remaining hours of darkness and anonymity, but the six a.m.ers are the ones that held out for something better that never came along. Which would all be sadder except for the gripping beauty of the pilgremage, the stillness of the water and the tentatively changing colors of the buildings, the predawn that makes sleep seem like a terrible decision, a trading of sacredness and anticipation for the wholly knowable next day.

This is when I want to live my whole life: between two and six a.m., when there are so few distractions that breathing seems like enough.