Postcards from Places with Red Roofs. // h.s

With love from, Athens.

'I don't know about you, but it's lovely when you're awake at night. Not when you have woken up when it's disrupted sleep, but when you were never asleep, to begin with. I love seeing the city still, seeing the people and the pavements get their rest. The morning mist clocking in around 4 is and awakening the city for its day. I don't know about you, but I'd hate to ever sleep again.

Yours,
Quinn xx'

I finish penning the message, hiding a secret in its poetry. Sure, I love the sound of the birds in the morning, acting as nature's alarm clock. But I haven't always. I've learned to love the feeling of being the only one awake. I've learned for it to be freeing rather than isolating. I've learned to appreciate the positives from when I can't sleep.

I'd suppose it must be about 4 or 5 months since I've had a good night's sleep. Now, having a good night is simply to not feel taunted by the birds' relentless, repeating tunes. Last night was especially bad. For once, I felt tired. You'll find out that feeling tired is not a common occurrence nowadays. I'm slightly worried the bags under my eyes are as permanent as the tattoos my sister flaunts.

My sister, Amy, is one of a kind; too clever for her own good. I suspect, should someone look inside her brain, it'd be bursting with knowledge and facts and song lyrics. So many song lyrics. She's my parents' pride and joy, upon receiving her four A*'s at A-Level, she's been the pinnacle of my parents' creation. And me? Pretty similar. Whilst Amy is at the top of her business at a mere 24, I live with her, aged 23. I finished A-Levels with 3 A's, not quite as impressive as Amy. And I work in a supermarket, one day a week. So, pretty similar to Amy, I'd say. This is not an attempt at pity; I'm very proud of Amy and her achievements.

Yet here I am, sitting at half six in the morning, overlooking the city- slowly rising out of its slumber. Lampposts retire for the day and slowly begin to allow the morning sun to light today's paths. Last night, I felt tired. A rarity, you'll recall. I convinced myself that it was a turning point, a moment of sudden realisation and change. A eureka moment, if you will.

Yet, 8 hours later, I still get to get the sleep my body is craving. Amy is getting ready in her room, I hear the clumsy stumbling of her attempting to find her work clothes. My bed is still made, and my tea's now cold.

I've never liked tea. Or coffee. Or hot drinks in general. But sitting on the windowsill throughout the night definitely gives you a chill. So, I attempted to warm my hands and my heart with a warm cup of tea. Horrific. I'll make a note that I still don't like tea. I'd hoped that as I grew older, I'd begin to like all the things my mum does. But yet, mushrooms still repulse me and olives taste like salty balls of bitter hatred. One day, I hope things will change, and I'll feel like an adult.

I peel a stamp from the book and place it onto the postcard, wincing at the small air bubble near the corner. I stood up from my cramped window position, feeling the bones in my legs and back sighing in relief. Without a word, I grab my keys and leave the flat.

I refuse to get into the lift. I don't have a fear of them, per se, there's just not enough room to breathe in them. So, I take the march of the hundred-odd stairs to the ground floor. I avoid eye contact with the man on reception, who insists my name is Quincy, and that:
"Quinn is a man's name, darling". A smile and a polite laugh seem to be the best antidote for his odd sense of humour. Keeping him sweet helps him forget that Amy's flat is single-occupancy only.

Walking to the postbox at half-six in the morning is a first. Usually, I leave it a bit later, leaving around eight or nine when there are more people, or potential witnesses (dependent on how optimistic or pessimistic you are), around. But, it's not a long journey and I have a lot planned today, so I figure the morning walk may wake me up for the day ahead.

Today, I have a webinar on becoming a mature student at university. From a young age, I always pictured myself with a long beige coat and black boots, walking around London being a student. Sitting with friends in a small cafe after lectures, wielding laptops and writing with glasses perched on my nose. By 23, many would assume that time had been and gone. But, let's just say, I never got round to it, and let's leave it there.