I haven’t had the late nights that I used to.
The night used to be a part of my character, a part of the very essence of who I was. I was the person with the horrendous sleep schedule, who would greet you with bleary eyes when you woke up. Breakfast was my dinner, the rooster’s dawn my signal for sleep. There was something special about that time, something I loved deeply but could never quite seem to describe to others. There was a certain freedom. Society was sleeping, but it felt like I alone was awake. I was never an insomniac exactly. I got the sleep I needed, it just came at hours that weren’t very conducive to what would be called a normal life.
But now I get tired. I resign myself to sleep and I get up earlier in the morning. I have a schedule, even.
At times, it feels wrong. It’s as if I’ve lost some essential part of myself. I don’t write much about music anymore, in part because I’m listening to less of it and in part because I’m alone with my thoughts less. Late nights still have their allure, but now they’re impractical. I have too many concerns to take the time to sit alone and think. I have early mornings and obligations. My room’s windows face east. I can’t sleep in.
I get tired.