Suddenly I wake up. Rain upon the roof. It’s warm under the quilt. It’s unseasonally cold outside though. The clock says its 3.40am. I can’t go back to sleep. There’s no use lying in bed. So I get up, make some tea and read.

It’s not my habit to wake up at this hour, so I treat these early risings as a bonus. A sort of gift. It’s so unearthly quiet, you can only hear the clock ticking. You only have yourself and your books for company. You’re alone with your thoughts. You have to be so very quiet, for the family still slumbers. This is a good time to write. This is a good time to think. A good time to just be.

It seems that in our daily rush, in the non-stop activities that make up our lives, we forget to simply be. I think the Dalai Lama once said that we should spend part of every day alone with ourselves. It’s a sort of centering. A kind of grounding. He talks about meditation too. I keep telling myself I should do it.

I can still hear the clock ticking. It has turned a boy into a young man, a young man into a middle age man and in time, barring any health issues or accidents, a middle age man into an old one. It goes so fast.

One can be very philosophical in the early hours of morning. I think it’s time to make another cup of tea and maybe watch the sunrise. It’ll be hidden behind a blanket of grey clouds. But it will rise. There is much to look forward to . . .

What would you do at such an unearthly hour?

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