[Life] Sleep is Precious
I have sleep.
Thank you, thank you, God.
I think for the past two days, I was running on a total of...close to six hours of sleep, perhaps less. But that wasn't the whole story. I had three finals - two on Monday, one Tuesday. And on Monday night, I closed at work. The point of the story is that I had both finals and work - all of which added stress and prevented me from resting. But it's over for now. I can breath normally. Until the 11th, that is. Ara. Why are there so many finals?
I've noticed many of us posting entries relating to sleep...or lack, rather. I hate going without sleep. I'm the type of person who transforms into a neurotic creature when I lack the precious rest. Some people can stay up as late as they want and still function. I am not that kind of person. I'm both a morning person and a night owl depending, so long as I get my rest at some point. What kind of person are you? It's hard to tell who's a morning person and who's night, given all our different time zones. Generally, I like to be up early so my day isn't shot. But yet, here I am at 2AM writing my livejournal. Granted, I slept from about 2PM to 8PM today... (So glad I didn't have work.)
I'm so glad week one of Hell is over. I lost 5 pounds this week. I think from stress and being on the go. (I need to make sure to eat hearty food tomorrow.) Strangely, despite the stress, I was happy. Happy in a looney-hang-all-over-everyone way, but happy. Is that insanity? I don't know. All I can think is "yay." After I get Wednesday's final done, I have four more. And then, liberation comes on December the 11th. It will all be over.
And then I anticipate lots of lovely sleep.
Oh, I bought some Christmas cards. Huzzah. Will be writing them soon. :)
There is a city where it never rains.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Hydroplane
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
In the distance, the wind whipped around a lonely figure, the sand beating against his cloak savagely. His boots sunk as he walked, making thoom thoom sounds as he lifted and set them down again. The sweat had long since soaked through the layers of his shirt, making the fabric cling to him without mercy.
“Looks like I made it,” he breathed, coming to the dusty edge of the desert.
Not two miles away, he spied the first spindly remnants of a town. He had heard mysterious rumors of it as a child, but actually seeing it was a disappointment. From his vantage point, it looked like nothing more than a graveyard - dusty ruins of a city that had once flourished. It was ugly, haggard like the old women who would bark and shoo him when he was younger, poking him along with sooty brooms.
The last two miles seemed to take forever to cross, but he finally reached a stone pillar near the decrepit entrance that had once been an archway. He could make out the name “Parthenian” through the scratch marks that marred it. Another name, though, was written crookedly underneath - “The Slums.” That’s the name he was used to hearing. Shrugging, he hefted his pack more firmly on his shoulder and walked past the border. It was thin and unguarded, something that left him feeling more uneasy than relieved.
“Hey you.”
He jumped at the voice - the first human sound he had heard in months. From the look of the place, he was beginning to wonder if any people at all resided in Parthenian.
“You a traveler?” the old woman asked, stepping out from the shade of a statue and into the light. She surveyed him with shrewd, narrow eyes. Her skin was browner than his leather boots.
He chewed his lip before flashing a wide, easy smile.
“Is that a bad thing?” he wondered aloud. “To be a stranger, that is.”
She considered this for a moment, brushing wiry gray strands from her face.
“No,” she ventured. “I suppose not.”
She stared at his face with marked suspicion, brows furrowing as her eyes flicked to the desert and back to him again.
“You didn’t cross here from that desert out yonder, did ya?”
“Of course not,” he lied, chuckling. “No soul alive can accomplish that! I’m from the southern quarter - I came round this side to see the old eastern entrance I’d heard about.”
She stared at him shrewdly, searching his face for a long time. Finally, she seemed to relax.
“No one’s used this entrance for years and years. Kids used to come out here to play in the crumbling buildings sometimes, but lately, even they have gone away.” She paused, “Say, what’s your name traveler?”
“Kazuo,” he said simply, staring with interest at the ancient planters settled alongside the road.
“Kazuo, hm?” she repeated to herself, testing the sound of the name on her lips. “Well, this city’s known by a lot of names. ‘Parthenian,’ once upon a time, and also the ‘City for Wanderers’ - like yourself, I guess you could say. Lately, though, we get called ‘The Slums’ by the traders and ‘The City Where it Never Rains’ by the poets.”
“Why are you out here?” he asked suddenly, scrutinizing her dingy clothes more closely.
She grinned, the action changing her chiseled face into something bright, and held up a small brown pouch.
“This is my specialty,” she informed, hunching over close to the ground.
Kazuo watched with interest as she took her dried out hands and scraped even drier soil up from the parched ground. Her nails were brittle, and chipped against the rocks. She continued along in a row by the road, digging little holes. Then, she followed the trail, dropping little seeds in and pushing the dirt back over them and patting her handiwork.
“When I was a little girl,” she said, huffing and puffing as she started another row on the other side. “Ferns and flowers lined this roadside, and all the planters were overflowing with green.”
Kazuo smiled goofily.
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, winking. “It’s hard to believe now, isn’t it? The last time we had so much as a shower here was twelve years ago, and even that was a miracle, since the last time before that was fifty years ago. Twice in sixty-two years. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“No,” Kazuo agreed, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Do you need help planting those?”
“Nah,” she chuckled. “I do this every few weeks - just in case. You never know when the rain’s coming. It’s only a matter of time for us, I think.”
Kazuo nodded. “Mm.”
“You know,” she whispered, staring off in the direction of the desert. “I used to think that it was the desert’s fault, this. That it was the root of all this evil.”
She snapped out of her spell and turned to Kazuo.
“Sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Why don’t you go on into town, boy? There’s plenty of people there, you know, and there’s probably a fresh change of clothes lying around somewhere for you. That heavy cloak seems awful uncomfortable. Just go to the Office - they have old boxes of stuff there just going to waste.”
“Okay, Granny,” he grinned, delighting in her annoyed expression at his sudden endearment. “I’ll see you around.”
She huffed and shook her head.
“I suppose so.”
He shifted his pack again and walked further, turning to glance back at the woman one last time, staring in wonder and disbelief as she started on another row of seeds.
“Twelve years ago, huh?” he mumbled to himself, smirking. “Seems about right.”
Thank you, thank you, God.
I think for the past two days, I was running on a total of...close to six hours of sleep, perhaps less. But that wasn't the whole story. I had three finals - two on Monday, one Tuesday. And on Monday night, I closed at work. The point of the story is that I had both finals and work - all of which added stress and prevented me from resting. But it's over for now. I can breath normally. Until the 11th, that is. Ara. Why are there so many finals?
I've noticed many of us posting entries relating to sleep...or lack, rather. I hate going without sleep. I'm the type of person who transforms into a neurotic creature when I lack the precious rest. Some people can stay up as late as they want and still function. I am not that kind of person. I'm both a morning person and a night owl depending, so long as I get my rest at some point. What kind of person are you? It's hard to tell who's a morning person and who's night, given all our different time zones. Generally, I like to be up early so my day isn't shot. But yet, here I am at 2AM writing my livejournal. Granted, I slept from about 2PM to 8PM today... (So glad I didn't have work.)
I'm so glad week one of Hell is over. I lost 5 pounds this week. I think from stress and being on the go. (I need to make sure to eat hearty food tomorrow.) Strangely, despite the stress, I was happy. Happy in a looney-hang-all-over-everyone way, but happy. Is that insanity? I don't know. All I can think is "yay." After I get Wednesday's final done, I have four more. And then, liberation comes on December the 11th. It will all be over.
And then I anticipate lots of lovely sleep.
Oh, I bought some Christmas cards. Huzzah. Will be writing them soon. :)
There is a city where it never rains.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Hydroplane
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
In the distance, the wind whipped around a lonely figure, the sand beating against his cloak savagely. His boots sunk as he walked, making thoom thoom sounds as he lifted and set them down again. The sweat had long since soaked through the layers of his shirt, making the fabric cling to him without mercy.
“Looks like I made it,” he breathed, coming to the dusty edge of the desert.
Not two miles away, he spied the first spindly remnants of a town. He had heard mysterious rumors of it as a child, but actually seeing it was a disappointment. From his vantage point, it looked like nothing more than a graveyard - dusty ruins of a city that had once flourished. It was ugly, haggard like the old women who would bark and shoo him when he was younger, poking him along with sooty brooms.
The last two miles seemed to take forever to cross, but he finally reached a stone pillar near the decrepit entrance that had once been an archway. He could make out the name “Parthenian” through the scratch marks that marred it. Another name, though, was written crookedly underneath - “The Slums.” That’s the name he was used to hearing. Shrugging, he hefted his pack more firmly on his shoulder and walked past the border. It was thin and unguarded, something that left him feeling more uneasy than relieved.
“Hey you.”
He jumped at the voice - the first human sound he had heard in months. From the look of the place, he was beginning to wonder if any people at all resided in Parthenian.
“You a traveler?” the old woman asked, stepping out from the shade of a statue and into the light. She surveyed him with shrewd, narrow eyes. Her skin was browner than his leather boots.
He chewed his lip before flashing a wide, easy smile.
“Is that a bad thing?” he wondered aloud. “To be a stranger, that is.”
She considered this for a moment, brushing wiry gray strands from her face.
“No,” she ventured. “I suppose not.”
She stared at his face with marked suspicion, brows furrowing as her eyes flicked to the desert and back to him again.
“You didn’t cross here from that desert out yonder, did ya?”
“Of course not,” he lied, chuckling. “No soul alive can accomplish that! I’m from the southern quarter - I came round this side to see the old eastern entrance I’d heard about.”
She stared at him shrewdly, searching his face for a long time. Finally, she seemed to relax.
“No one’s used this entrance for years and years. Kids used to come out here to play in the crumbling buildings sometimes, but lately, even they have gone away.” She paused, “Say, what’s your name traveler?”
“Kazuo,” he said simply, staring with interest at the ancient planters settled alongside the road.
“Kazuo, hm?” she repeated to herself, testing the sound of the name on her lips. “Well, this city’s known by a lot of names. ‘Parthenian,’ once upon a time, and also the ‘City for Wanderers’ - like yourself, I guess you could say. Lately, though, we get called ‘The Slums’ by the traders and ‘The City Where it Never Rains’ by the poets.”
“Why are you out here?” he asked suddenly, scrutinizing her dingy clothes more closely.
She grinned, the action changing her chiseled face into something bright, and held up a small brown pouch.
“This is my specialty,” she informed, hunching over close to the ground.
Kazuo watched with interest as she took her dried out hands and scraped even drier soil up from the parched ground. Her nails were brittle, and chipped against the rocks. She continued along in a row by the road, digging little holes. Then, she followed the trail, dropping little seeds in and pushing the dirt back over them and patting her handiwork.
“When I was a little girl,” she said, huffing and puffing as she started another row on the other side. “Ferns and flowers lined this roadside, and all the planters were overflowing with green.”
Kazuo smiled goofily.
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, winking. “It’s hard to believe now, isn’t it? The last time we had so much as a shower here was twelve years ago, and even that was a miracle, since the last time before that was fifty years ago. Twice in sixty-two years. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“No,” Kazuo agreed, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Do you need help planting those?”
“Nah,” she chuckled. “I do this every few weeks - just in case. You never know when the rain’s coming. It’s only a matter of time for us, I think.”
Kazuo nodded. “Mm.”
“You know,” she whispered, staring off in the direction of the desert. “I used to think that it was the desert’s fault, this. That it was the root of all this evil.”
She snapped out of her spell and turned to Kazuo.
“Sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Why don’t you go on into town, boy? There’s plenty of people there, you know, and there’s probably a fresh change of clothes lying around somewhere for you. That heavy cloak seems awful uncomfortable. Just go to the Office - they have old boxes of stuff there just going to waste.”
“Okay, Granny,” he grinned, delighting in her annoyed expression at his sudden endearment. “I’ll see you around.”
She huffed and shook her head.
“I suppose so.”
He shifted his pack again and walked further, turning to glance back at the woman one last time, staring in wonder and disbelief as she started on another row of seeds.
“Twelve years ago, huh?” he mumbled to himself, smirking. “Seems about right.”