I might have been coming at mornings from the wrong angle. I tend towards the side that pushes the limits of the calendar and puts doubt into the hearts of watches everywhere. A longtime all-nighter enthusiast, I figured that the first inklings of sleep deprivation were the real fuel to the fire of my creativity.
Sitting in the passenger seat of a Prius on the side of a residential street in a foliage-ridden neighborhood in Indiana with my pillow and hopes for sleep after just 4hrs of shuteye this mornight, I'm forced to reconsider.
I am a crumpled V, my long lines wilting in the morning dew and the confines of space. If one were to see a cross-section of my chosen sleeping position, one would surely lecture about the benefits of good posture and proper stretching. I don't have time for that. Squished between a headrest and a pillow, my mind is a dryer on high -- restoring recognizable structure to saturated ideas and letting them tumble together into chunks. My eyes are covered into a pseudo darkness and I remove this clumps and shake them out, folding them as nonchalantly as my mild OCD will allow.
O based God, let me shake and weez with the contentment of mostly unsatisfactory sleep. My wish to regain a need to write does not need to be granted now. I will gladly pay the traditional tribute by imbibing inappropriate amounts of caffeine that it normally takes to be gifted Motivation.
This revelation seems to come too late (or is it too early?) as I am already hundreds (or is it thousands?) of incidents into my Voluntary Sleep Deprivation career. Frankly, I am I'll prepared for such a shift in my psyche. When I was warned of the Uncertainty of my Twenties, I had no idea it would rock me so thoroughly to the core. I've based my entire food consumption schedule, and thus my personality, off the severe reassurance of my Night Person-ness. Take this pillar, upon which the rest of my being balances so precariously, and there will be nothing left that resembles a sense of humanity.
I don't know, maybe I'm just tired.
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