Sunrise and self-indulgence

A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Or so they say, those brave survivors of the great mental famine of '84. Or was it '86? I was never terribly good with dates. Or numbers, rote learning required. I didn't learn my times tables until high school. Gifted: such a label! An indelible "Kick Me" through adolescence, an unshakable saddling of expectation, tenacious as sapient pearwood (and occasionally just as vicious). What is the SI unit of wasteage?

Experience is mightier than the book (in my experience), and empathy gets you farther than certainty (though certainty gets the better views, at least on fine days).

Gifted. A label from those who've never seen me forget my glasses/the time/where I left my pen/what the hell I'm supposed to be doing right now, and why can't I hold on to a single thought for more than ten seconds? It's all piling up and there's so much to do and it's all so daunting and what if, what if I don't get it right/if I fall behind/if I make a mistake/if I make the wrong choice when I'm supposed to be so damn smart? It's two o'clock and I haven't had lunch and all of this Latin is drowning me in the mire of unfamiliarity and ridiculous (self)expectation.

The parents', the teachers', the classmates' assumptions of certain (defined) success and perceived failings of choosing the quiet life, love, good health, a delicate balance. Gifted (read: introspective, insecure, prone to depression, insomnia and self-recrimination)? The greatest imparted are you and the buttery morning sun melting into mist.

Silence the alarm and snuggle deeper into the brilliance of being here, being now, being us; warm bodies, cold noses, paused moments, gifted