Is it normal that I’m only insomniac when in the city? Maybe it’s because I live alone and so I’m afraid of the possibilities the night brings, but this is a building and my apartment’s windows all face the backside of the building, accessing them from the outside is nearly impossible. Three locks on the door ought to make quite the ruckus should someone try to break in through there. So safety is probably the least likely reason why.
These summer days seem to be dimming some, even though temperatures still rise above the 90º on some days, it’s getting to be less and less regular. The nights though, the nights are usually gloriously fresh and windy, so much that even the curtins, despite my wind0ws unfriendly angles, get to move rather vigorously. So maybe my staying awake is due to the blessing of refreshment. But then again this happens in the night, when I cannot go out and run errands, when not even TV is decent enough to stay tuned to that. I will admit the temperature has a small part to play in all this ordeal, but it’s small.
I’m pretty sure the whole point of my insomnia is to provide solitude, it’s my body’s way of giving me some time with myself, where I can relax and write a post without the need to stop and count to ten in order to crush the need to yell a few choice words to the neighbor and his penchant to share his musical taste. No cars racing and no buses stopping on the corner street at regular intervals, no children running and screaming in the schoolyard next door, no nothing to disturb my enjoyment of tea and a book.
Now, while I do love this little intervals I’m apparently allowed, they come at a high price. Daytime is when the rest of the world functions, I cannot go to school at three o’clock in the morning, no matter how alluring the breeze seems to be, there is no way I can go grocery shopping, or do a load at the laundr-o-mat. Clearly this sucks.
Yet. It is a price I pay gladly, I don’t mind the look the cashier gives me when I show up at the register without having weighted my apricots first, nor do I care that the bus driver thinks me out of place when I hand him a bronze quarter instead of the proper coin (which, in my defense, is also bronze colored), neither does it have any weight whatsoever the look on my friend’s face when I tell her it’s time for me to clock out, I’m beat, at eight-thirty. None of this is relevant because these are sacrifices I make for that little extra time of self-preservation. I get to handle all the invasions modern life throws at me because I get to spend a few more minutes (hours) in my shell, remembering who I am and what I think/like/feel about stuff.
Costly price indeed, having to pay with rest and recovery time, but in the end I guess it balances out, what I lose for what I gain (or get to keep). Thing is I cannot go to sleep, I’ve tried and it doesn’t work, it’s simply useless to even bother, I always end up getting out of bed because I’d rather feel like a zombie while reading a book and not while tossing and turning around in bed.
It is also entirely too possible that this is not the actual reason for my insomnia but an excuse, the rationalization carried out by my subconscious to justify my nightly vigil, it may turn out that, after all, I do not feel safe in this apartment at all.