That’s nothing new. Sleep has become just a yearning for me for the past ten years. It may actually be even longer than that, I lost count of the so many sleepless nights.
My problem is that the World is designed in opposition to how my brain works. I just don’t fit in.
My brain rests during the day (mostly due to sensory overload) and is wide awake at night.
My other problem is that the World is too loud, so loud that finding oneself acting coherent with one’s own thoughts during the day is, to me, an overwhelmingly stressful thing.
The day is overcrowded with people and people’s ruminations. People complaining, people judging, people pretending, people assuming…
I prefer the night version of people, the evening times when the overworked minds and bodies are tired, and I am able to see the closest to reality that I might ever be able to see in them… the vulnerabilities, the heartbreaks, the fears and sorrows.
I also prefer the night version of me.
The night time brings me a sense of awakening, even though it’s not a peaceful time. In fact, it’s quite an agitated journey; but that state of anarchy, that disruption of the daytime flow of illusory sanity is exactly what keeps me interested in existing.
And in writing.