I’m sitting writing this nearing midnight on an undisclosed day, always happy to see my dear friend, a state of simultaneous reverie and focus that takes hold of me whenever we see one another. While the timezone sleeps, a good time is had by all. That’s not the story of most nights I have at the moment, but it’s the story of tonight.
Now, in spite of that ode to the height of moonlight, I can’t just keep waxing poetic about my favorite time of day. It’s not exactly all peace all the time in the middle of the night. I’ve got a family that’s as late to bed, or in the case of my father later, than I am. Most nights, in spite of earlier wake up calls than mine, they sleep around 1:30 a.m. Is it healthy? I can’t say so, in all likelihood, but it’s a schedule that gets the job done.
There’s a balancing act, however. One which requires complete discipline to keep up with. One where I sleep, regardless of whether or not I’m tired of running from the one truth I know about my body: when the sun goes down, I rise.
At first, it sounds like an absurd notion. I may already not be a fan of sunlight, but I don’t have two little pin prick marks on my neck that would make me mortal enemies with it; at least not last I check. Yet still experientially, I think my claims have a truth to them. When removed from the need to get up in the mornings, I naturally start to drift towards a more consistent schedule. The kind dictated by a working circadian rhythm.
The only thing about that working circadian rhythm in my case, is that it shakes out to only barely seeing the light of day. Something I’d be otherwise fine with if it wasn’t impossible to attend class and do the occasional grocery shopping under such conditions. While I enjoy sleeping when tired, in tune with my body’s needs like I’m disengaging another one of its simple signals, like hunger, I also happen to need to be up and out before 5 p.m.
It’s a reality I lament early and often. While I’ve cursed the schedule by which the world forces me to work since I was under five feet, in a post- 2020 world, I feel more strongly than ever that the sooner I can find a way to heed my nocturnal imperative, the better. The call of the night is too strong for me to resist, and its fruits too sweet. Clarity is a large boon to receive for just setting down the spinning plates and sleeping the way I feel designed to.
While it may be conjecture, I know in instances of complete manifestation of my flipped schedule, such as that during 2020 and parts of the year following, that I am much less willing to shake the set start and end times for the day. Until some task which requires daylight hours called me, I was waking up at 6 p.m. and sleeping at, or right after sunrise for the longest time. A ship passing in the night in my own home. The picture of tranquility and zen.
I felt energized in my tasks in a way I can’t say is reflected in daylight. I found the energy to learn some rudimentary dishes to cook, write more like I would when I was a middle schooler staying up until 3 a.m. to get a clear head. I felt all the things one was supposed to feel after a full night’s rest, and yet, in the wake of the nine-to-five, and other such inconvenient inventions of humanity, I am denied dignity and satisfaction.
I know I can’t be alone in my toil; I’ve had too many professors say they may email the class back in the wee hours of the night for it not to be true. I can only presume that either my fellow nightwalkers feel some kind of similar indignation or have otherwise been so indoctrinated by the day that they curse the misfortune of their own births. Either way, I know there is a silent war being raged. One that I am on the losing side of.