WHEN was the last time you slept the same day and woke up the next one? Technically speaking, if bedtime for you is any second past midnight, then you’ve basically given up on the normalcy of individual existence.
Growing up, we all knew it was best to sleep early in order to prepare for the next busy day. If you particularly belong to an age group that plays a part in society’s non-stop economical machinery, then you probably forgot how that felt like—sleeping the same day when you woke up.
Alas, bothered with a flu that the brother and I traced to, theoretically, eating too much fried chicken wings one night, I went to bed earlier than usual. It was a dark, terrible feeling. It was almost as if I were counter-productive—a.k.a missing the chance to rank up more on Mobile Legends or failing to catch up on the “Harry Potter” films. (I just started watching the movies. Go ahead. Judge me.)
Whatever the case, the crisp, clean sheets looked every bit of paradise; the fresh pillows, some cumulonimbus. The room got a little makeover beforehand. It was cleaner. Among other things, I now had some space for my guitar and a practice amp beside me.
So I called it a day at 8:30. Good night.
I got up the next day, not completely recovered but the best I’ve been in the last 24 hours. I was up and ready to face another day in the office. You know—we’ve all got to protect the pay.
It would’ve been perfect, except for the fact that it was actually still two in the morning. The thought of exercising crossed my mind. But there’s no way I’d commit to this plan. At this pace, I would be showing up in the office by 4 a.m. Not even protecting the pay would make sense of me suddenly taking over graveyard duties from the office secutity guard.
So I did what any normal human being would do at that point: Try to sleep again.
One hour. Two more. I quit on the third. This time, I could already hear the roosters preempting the morning news on television. Even merely recalling the events of those ungodly hours, as I’m currently writing this entry, is giving me a headache. It was a terrible state to be in; mentally numb. I’ve been on an espresso binge the last two months. The flu forced me to be coffee-clean for about a week. Perhaps, this was withdrawal kicking in with a bombastic bang.
So I picked up my guitar and plugged it in to my little amp. I opened the Notes app on my phone where I stash files of unfinished verses and started writing (well, typing). I finished a song, right then and there. And this happened for two days straight. Thus, two new songs.
Are these songs the best? I highly doubt it. But while starting to write a song is already a daunting task in itself, actually going through several bouts of self-criticism during the entire process, and finally calling a draft a finished piece of work, is as cool a serving of Everest’s snow-capped peaks.
There’s something about writing when you’re not thinking. Thinking somehow ruins things, at least for me, in this specific context. But I don’t think extending these dawn sessions is a good idea. Therapeutic, yes. But maybe in a better time; a better state.
For now, I’m just glad I’m off Decolgen. Drugs, right?