Night Owling

Rambling thoughts of a lifelong insomniac.

I’ve been padding around the house in the middle of the night as long as I can remember, and definitely as young as five.

I love the middle of the night. I love the crazed energy of a second wind — when everything is quiet. It feels OK to have heightened senses and chronic hypervigilance. I am alone, slipping in and out of silky shadows.

I hate waking early. Benjamin Franklin and all of the polymaths of all time can keep their early risings to themselves. I hate early mornings so much, that rising early is my litmus test for how much I love doing a thing.

Do I love this enough to get up at 5 am for it? I do? OK, then I can work on movies!

(Until I couldn’t, then it was HATE with a capital STAB!)

My high school had a thing called “Zero Hour.” Fuck “Zero Hour!” (Those sadists also had things called “JUG [Justice Under God] and RASSH [Required After School Study Hell.]) Sometimes my friends and I just stayed up all night, drinking coffee and smoking, rather than go to bed and try to rouse for school. I couldn’t be friends with morning people until well after college. Even now, it is not easy. But, at least now, I am in awe of them, weirdos.