A rooster crows. Birds sing. Little forest animals poke their heads out of their burrows for the first time. Frost coats the ground, glistening off the glazed blades of grass like a coat of tiny pearls. Is this the opening frames of a new, heartwarming Disney animation project? No, this is something far more foreign, far more mythical to college students today.

This is 6 in the morning.

I know what you're thinking. But EJ, you say, no one gets up at six in the morning. Six in the morning is for psychopaths.

Until a month ago, I'd have agreed with you wholeheartedly. I only took late classes, slept until nine, and stayed in bed until at least ten thirty browsing Facebook and internet news. Then registration for this semester rolled around and a required class was only available at eight o'clock in the morning. With heavy heart and heavy eyes, I put the class in my cart and weighed my options. I could ghost the class and only show up for syllabus day and exams, or I could go to the class every day like a responsible adult.

Needless to say, I was planning on ghosting it.

Then Christmas break started and, miraculously, I started picking up day shifts instead of working closing hours that kept me at work until almost midnight. I was looking forward to three days of being able to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. I could catch up on so much sleep. I could catch up on all of the sleep. I went to bed that first night at ten thirty, eagerly awaiting at least ten hours in dreamland.

And then, at 4:30 in the morning, I awoke and couldn't get back to sleep.

In the months of night shifts, after-work papers, and late mornings, my body had grown accustomed to sleeping in short, four to six hour bursts. Now it doesn't take a doctorate in sleep pathology to know that that isn't healthy, but that was what my situation allowed. I had become a sleep-deprived zombie, and it had an effect on every aspect of my life. Even, it seemed, on my ability to sleep.

I spent the first hour laying in bed trying to go back to sleep, but at five thirty it was clear that I wasn't going to make it back any time soon. So I got out of bed, made breakfast and coffee, and set to work editing some old pieces of fiction that were badly in need of attention. It was a productive morning, and by seven thirty I had gotten more work done than I had accomplished in the whole week prior. I went to bed at ten thirty once again, well worn out from a long day at work, fully expecting to have a good long sleep this time.

But once again, the clock struck way-too-early o'clock, and I was out of bed by five. This was getting ridiculous. Surely I hadn't become an early bird? As it turned out, by shifting my sleep schedule several hours back, I had. As the break wore on, little by little I woke later and later, getting longer and more complete sleep, until I was going to bed at eleven and getting up at seven; a full eight hours of sleep were mine on a regular basis!

After a while I started picking up night shifts again and the average pushed a little later, but by then it was too late; I was up with the sun, getting work done on the regular, and behaving like a responsible, well-adjusted adult.

And I was happier for it.

I had a sense of purpose and accomplishment when I woke up; after all, I had hours upon hours to get work done, and I was well-rested to boot. My job seemed less tedious, too, since I was coming in with a fully prepared, fulfilled mindset. And that morning class suddenly didn't seem so odious. Rather than being an obstacle to my happiness and punishing me for my life choices, it offered a chance to go and do something after I'd had a chance to wake up.

So when I woke up the first day after break at five in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I didn't groan and roll over in bed, fighting for reentry to dreamland. I got out of bed, showered, and got some writing done over a pot of fresh coffee.

All in all, there's something to be said for getting up in the morning.