Some mornings I remember that old orange couch where we spent too many hopeless afternoons, staring at stains on the walls telling ourselves that our lives were ended already, that our very breath was already marked for reposession by a grim character who didn't care enough to even collect it.
Some mornings, when my bones are sore and my brain still reeling from the bustle of the day before, I remember that all-important moment when the starting gun rang out shrill and clear and the day took off from under me.
Those mornings, rather than panic at the work ahead of me, I sit and watch the flicker of dawn and the rush of cars is a parade march into a day filled with importance I never thought I would find.
That I certainly never thought I would find myself at the centre of.
Last night I collapsed into bed, corporate papers half-filed, the words of my boss, my coworkers, the tall guy on the other team, all reeling and whispering-dancing around the fatigue of a straight sixteen hours of tension.
TOday I have work upon work to complete, my old project still due at the end of this week and the new emergencies still ringing in my ears screeching "critical, critical".
Tonight, and tomorrow, my plans are abandoned, climbing-release postponed until Thursday, expectations piles high from all sides.
And in the moments before reality hits and the panic of "how much can I get done before my 10am meeting", I sit in the pre-dawn and marvel that my life holds importance.
That my mind holds answers, and that they are in demand.
Maybe that is the secret to the A personality type, maybe it isn't about money or fame, but that fulfillment, that forgotten rung of Maslowe's pyramid, has become all too important a trophy.
Because I never really believed it possible, but some days when the race hits mach 7, I realize that I might just be important, that I might just be making a small difference.
And in all this drama and all this pride just waiting to turn into the Great Arrogance, the pre-dawn moments are so warm, so tired, so quiet.
My vegetables are sprouting as I turn their pots, my plants are growing new leaves with every burst of sunlight, and I spend this forbidden hour where I am awake and the world has not yet discovered my transgressions, telling them my secrets, cherishing the conversation that occurs before the world goes mad again.