It’s bizarre how different my mornings are from my evenings.
Mornings are a time of sleepy competence, when I may not want to be up but I can still make coffee and get dressed on time. Sitting in my car or drinking more coffee at work, it’s easy to plan the day. It’s easy to decide that I won’t drink or smoke too much today, that I’ll be productive and pleasant, if not happy.
Something else takes over my brain when I get home in the evening. I can’t quite believe the change. There’s a certain nagging sadness like a little angry worm in my chest. Last night I drove to a book store in the midst of quickly alternating sorrow and panic. Bookstores are a heady experience in that frame of mind. So many stories just sitting there, calling out. I wandered around trying not to cry. I left without buying anything.
I don’t entirely understand how I can be both of these people, Normal Morning Person and Broken Evening Person. Something about sunset just sets me off.