A good sleep is really important, but a timely sleep is a luxury. I have struggled with its timing over the years.
I justify myself by saying that I am working on something important, or that night has a bit of calmness to it; with night, there come fewer distractions, is the usual story. The fallen mistful and humid silence, are they really soothing though? And the flickering yellow street light right across the street from my window is steady, but can it replace the warmth of the sun?
Night has its own problems, not just in the form of Circadian rhythms.
Nights make it easy for memories to assault me. All pretense attitude washes away under the mist, leaving a mild sensation across my nape. My carefully crafted mindset—the philosophy of choosing pride over happiness—to forgetting the ghosts of the past across the withered wisp of clouds—dissolves with the years of held-back tears on my eyelids, and I just want to sleep. Yearnings of the past, or yearnings of sleep, I no longer know.
Over the past few months, I have tried to remember where my anger lies, and no face comes to mind; I ask what I am expecting, and no answer echoes back. Am I your friend, Meursault? Do you know me? Perhaps in knowing him, I know myself.
Today, I am writing this at night, and I wonder what part of my TODO has left. Sleep has been a distant stranger almost every day, but maybe today is a new start, because I feel a bit drowsy. Should I keep my eyes open for a bit? To rebel against the night, to keep the night from winning.