I have a strange relationship with time and, by direct implication, sleep. I am not a tremendously busy person and I am pretty sure I do not use the time I have as efficiently or effectively as I could but I do seem to run out of it on a fairly regular basis. I have things to do, even if it isn’t very much at all. I need more time, there simply isn’t enough of it. I need time for writing, for reading, for running and cycling and wandering and wondering and everything else. I do not have enough of it.
I could give up work, or reduce hours, but that isn’t really on the cards. So I cut back on my sleep, the result a heady mix of insomnia and stubbornness, until weeks into a cycle of a nightly four hours worth of sleep I crack and crash for a solid 10-12 hours. Don’t get me wrong, there are times I do enjoy sleeping, and the moment just prior to falling asleep my inner me does a little back-flip of joy. Every moment up until that point is one of resistance, bloodymindedness and too much wakefulness.
As you may already know I very much love the middle of the night; I love the relative quiet of 1am, of sitting at my kitchen table reading, writing, talking and tweeting until the first hint of dawn. I love staying up all night, hitting that wall where you are on the cusp of going to bed or just staying up until the following evening. I love taking the left-hand path and watching the sky break as light sweeps into the day. I love walking the streets when most others slumber, just me and myself and the darkness of a nightly solitude.
And that is the point, there are two different drivers here, a need for more time, and a love of that mysterious, mythical period between dusk and dawn, and they are two reasons that compliment each other beautifully. I think that, if I could, I would have the need to sleep removed. I could happily exist in the moment, living and observing the eternal transition of day into night, night into day, living its rhythms as my own.