Usually I am not tired.

Here’s a little-known fact: I secretly love all-nighters. My Critical and Alternative Voices professor (strong proponent of sleep) would be appalled to know it. So would my mother. So I don’t tell them.

Two summers ago I took a job delivering newspapers. I figured that if I wanted to really understand what journalism was about I had to experience all aspects of it. I also desperately needed money.

The inevitable catch: I had to show up to work at 2:30 a.m. seven days a week, and had to be done by 5 a.m. sharp.

The job was pretty rough at first: I remember my first Sunday (when the paper is three times its normal size) twisting my ankle, losing the battery power in my flashlight, being chased by a rabid raccoon (I swear) and finally watching my car roll down a hill and into a telephone pole. I almost quit without finishing that day.

But I persevered and it got easier. I came to learn little things about the early, early morning: the face of the man on the graveyard shift at 7-11; the location of at least a dozen raccoon nests; and, most importantly, the vast superiority of sunrises to sunsets.

I grew to love the time I spent alone throwing newspapers. The radio never played advertisements at 3 a.m. There was never anyone on the road. It was a private, peaceful utopia.

I savor this feeling at school, too. At around 1 a.m. everyone starts to file out of the library and you form an unspoken camaraderie with those who remain. You exchange tired smiles passing between your desk and the bathroom as if to say, “Yeah man, college is rough, but we’re in it together.”

I consider the hours between 1 and 7 a.m. to be a magic time when everything stops and I have the opportunity to gather myself. I relish the feeling I get when I realize it’s going to be an all-nighter. I surrender to it; I embrace it.