A Blue Morning After a Long Night

At 5:15 AM, the sky was turning blue over the city. The lights in the buildings hadn’t fully dimmed, and the river was reflecting the last traces of night. I was ending my day while everyone else was beginning theirs, and for a moment, I felt the quiet relief of knowing I made it through. At that hour, everything feels familiar — routine, almost forgettable. I don’t always notice who else is out there or what the city is doing. Most days, I’m just in a rush to go home, mind focused only on getting there. But this view caught my attention. Just for a second, it made me stop and look.

There isn’t much room for romanticism in the night shift. The hours blur. Your world gets quiet while the rest of it sleeps. And when the shift finally ends, there’s no big moment, just the pull of your bed, the ache in your legs, and the silent countdown until you get to do it all over again. But that morning, something in the way the city held its light felt like a small reminder: I was still here.

I didn’t feel energized. I didn’t feel inspired. I was drained physically, mentally. But there was a kind of peace in that, too. The work was done. The day, "my day" was over. Another long night crossed off the list. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it was enough.

I used to think “living fully” meant chasing something big. Always moving toward some version of more. But now, I think it might also mean noticing the sky when you’re too tired to think. Pausing in the middle of your autopilot morning to see the reflection on the river. Letting relief count as a kind of joy.

The world was waking up as I was winding down. I didn’t have the energy to match its pace and maybe I didn’t need to. I was moving in my own rhythm. And that morning, that rhythm led me back to myself, slowly, quietly, honestly.

There are days that end in regret or frustration, and there are days that end like this, not with clarity or celebration, but with stillness. A small inhale. A bigger exhale. A simple, thank God I’m done. A fleeting view that makes the familiar feel just a little less heavy.

If there’s any proof that I’m still living, fully, it’s this: I keep going. I keep working. I keep walking home — tired, unnoticed, but present. And sometimes, catching a glimpse of the sky is all the reminder I need that even in the blur, I’m still here. - MESSY E.

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