The night is mine

I like to complain to others about my insomnia, my screwed up sleep cycle. The complaints are really just an attempt at normalcy that I hide behind. The truth is, I love my late nights, my early mornings, my solitude. I can close my eyes and dance under the fluorescent light of my room. The light that seeps through my eyelids has the quality of sunlight that only exists in photographs. The kind of light that permeates three-quarters of the frame, dusty and enveloping.

At times, I go to the McCafe a short walk away with a book. The barista always prepares my coffee with such exceptional patience and care, at a time where he has no one else to serve. He brings it to me, me in my grey dimpled chair next to the transparent glass, made dark by night. Smiles and no conversation.

When I grow restless, I take a walk. Sure enough, there are always these stragglers walking alone at night. There is a code for wandering, you can look from afar but when you draw near to another being, you must look away. Strangely enough, the darkness isn't so much of a cover when one is purposeless. I always think of the same thing when I see middle aged drifters. I wonder if their existence on the streets have to do with a quarrel with their spouses or their children, if a hostile home environment is what drove them out.

I like how a few hours means so much more at night than it does in the day. The difference between 2pm and 5pm isn't so much to a day person. At night though, the difference between 2am and 5am is phenomenal. Similar to its pm counterparts, it can pass by in a heartbeat with a good book, some work or even quality television programming. The key lies in how the three hours between 2pm and 5pm feels like time that should be lived and used, whereas using time between 2am and 5am feels almost sacrilegious. Every time I look at the clock, a small, slightly guilty bubble of delight rises in my tummy. I feel like I am getting something that others do not have, like the night is mine.