I am going to bed later and later each day. It’s a reluctant expression of how I’m feeling; that is, a futile attempt to lengthen the time I have here. More often than not, I am unproductive. Productivity speeds up the time, you see.

The act itself is of course, unproductive. The less sleep I get, the slower and the more irritable I am. I find myself frequently staring off into space when I am supposed to be listening, or being less patient, when I should be accommodating. At the most inappropriate times, I feel like bursting into tears.

(I am reading this over, and it reads as melodramatic, and maybe whiny or a touched panicked. Or a cry for help. It is not. I am okay. I just need some time. To adjust perhaps. To slowly ease into what will soon be my life.

Maybe that is not the best way. Maybe a quick, shocking dunk into the water is exactly what I need.)