The last couple nights I have been up, sometimes long past midnight. I have lay on the sofa, writing, reading, enjoying the dark. This is not normal for me. But I have given myself over to it, even just for this small stretch of days. The quiet of the night makes me feel what people feel who know it better. I wish I had a hundred days to stay up late. Or maybe a month. I wish I could sleep in until 8.
But, even though I don’t, as a rule, do well on too little sleep, there is an energy to creating. And in rebellion. Sitting on the sofa late, late into the night feels, today, like an act of both. A rebellion against what? The order and obligations of daytime? The restrictions of sleep? The part of me that says, “That’s enough reading for tonight”?
Maybe there are truly consistent people in the world; I’m not one. Today, the quiet house, twinkle lights, silence, and two-in-the-morning are magic. Next week I’ll find it at three in the afternoon. The next week it will be nowhere.