I had never been at any point in my life, a morning person.

Like this morning. At 6:30 am, I woke to see clouds covering the sky like a gray blanket. It was raining softly, the low pitfalling sounds and the smell of rain and dirt filled my room. I loved that smell more than anything. I smiled, content with sleeping another few hours, knowing that today was going to be a beautiful day.

And when I woke up, all I saw was too-bright blue skies, white fluffy clouds, and that glowing yellow face, smirking down at me. I swore loudly, and vowed to sleep until that stupid fireball went under again.

There was something distinctly irritating about the sun. I didn't like it. After a while, people would tell me that my bones would grow weak from a lack of vitamin D, but I didn't listen. The sun, as far as I was concerned, was my enemy. I swore sometimes I could hear it mocking me, its taunting laughter making me feel insignificant and small.

My skin has always been a little too pale to be healthy. Whenever I was exposed to the sun for more than 30 minutes, my skin would turn a painful shade of pink. That is why I can never step into the condemning light without a heavy layer of sunscreen. I couldn't tan, only burn, and I never had the patience for the orange spray that the girls used either.

My mother never understood why I liked to wear long sleeve shirts outside on a blistering hot day. When I was about 14, she assumed I was covering my skin in an attempt to be white, like the rest of the young teenage population, obsessed with the idea of pale skin.

I didn't speak to her for a whole day after she chastised me for avoiding the sun, and following stupid trends. My mother didn't have skin like me, but then again, she never did ask my motives.

I had always been one that loved the winter.

I watched my friends play in the blazing heat at the beach, while I sat under the protecting shadow of my umbrella. The beach and the heat were things that I loathed, but I had to go with them this time. I knew they wanted me to get up and play beach volleyball, but they were lucky I had come this far. They were sick of me flaking out on them, my best friend said.

I wanted to say that I was sick of them trying to get me bronzed up so I could conform to their group, but I kept my mouth shut.

There is a kind of peace that comes with night.

I loved to watch the sun die - its pitiful rays struggling against the impeding black. That's when it wouldn't be too bright, or too hot, or too humid. Sometimes, I snuck out of my window and sat on the connecting garage roof under my window sill. I just sat there, sometimes for hours, watching the moon, and imagining that I could just step off the roof and fly, up and up, the cool wind whistling in my ears, my nightgown billowing behind me. I could pretend for a while that I was a creature of the night, and this contrasted world was my kingdom.

I loved to pretend that the moon sucked all the bright colours out of the world, like a big circular white vacuum cleaner. The black velvet skies seemed so vast, but didn't have the same intimidating effect on me as the bright blue. I enjoyed those quiet moments alone where if I wanted to, I could sing quiet laments to my sun, begging him to stay if just a little while longer.

When the sun rose, I would retreat back to my fortress where I would wait again for the black night to fall, and everything to lose colour, bleached black and white in the darkness.

The dawn of a new day, with a new sun. The longer light of summer, and the too-bright skies. They all saddened me, and all I wanted was to sleep to my own morning. Just sleep, and wait.

But when the night fell...

It was then that I was truly awake.