I have drifted through days steeped in nothingness—a peculiar emptiness that neither burdens nor frees. And I have come to believe that if a day turns lazy, it is better to sleep it away. Sleep, after all, is not a waste; it is an investment, repaid with the quiet currency of a conscious night. Nights are beautiful—you just have to remain awake long enough to witness their grace. They arrive with a certain stillness, a freshness woven into their darkness. Unlike daylight, darkness does not dazzle; it rests softly upon the eyes, as though cradling them. Eyes accustomed to the dark are gifts—they see without the arrogance of light.
In such hours, you may find yourself staring at sleeping people, pondering their fragile state. They lie so still, surrendered to dreams they’ll never fully recall. Some sleep with their eyes half-open, as if reluctant to let go of the world. Some with mouths ajar, mid-whisper to a thought long forgotten. Some snore, some murmur secrets, some curl into odd shapes that defy comfort. A few even sleep with tears clinging to the corners of their eyes—silent confessions glistening in the moonlight. They will never know. But you, the quiet observer, might come to know them in ways they’ve never known themselves. You might form opinions, uninvited yet inevitable. You might frown, smile, or even laugh softly at the absurd poetry of their unconscious selves. Perhaps, you might feel gratitude—for their unwitting companionship in the stillness. But things become complicated when they’re awake.
I carry within me a gentle folly: I understand the past with painful clarity, I’m endlessly curious about the future, yet I cannot inhabit either. The present is my obsession—a fleeting, fickle thing I keep chasing like a shadow that slips through my fingers. I’ve traded many precious nights—especially the ones before exams—for the transient ecstasy of reading poets. Their words intoxicate me more than any success ever could.
Tonight—or perhaps it’s morning now—I’ve done it again. I watched a film, stared at indifferent stars, read Keats and Kamala Das, and thought… a lot.
I imagined myself on the banks of an immature river, its waters still learning the art of flowing. The moon was the lone sentinel in the sky, casting its cold glow upon the restless ripples. I dove in. The water filled my ears, seeping into the hollow corridors of my skull, washing away the last traces of warmth and thought. I let the river carry me—through forests, beneath bridges of ancient roots, into adventures with no end and no purpose. I let myself go numb, surrendered to the beautiful futility of it all.
I have never been drunk, but I wonder—if drinking doesn’t offer such journeys, what is the point of its practice?
Then, in the whim of thought, I imagined the same river under the sun’s gaze, and just like that, my mood was ruined. Light reveals too much, strips away the mystery, lays everything bare. But darkness… darkness allows things to exist without explanation.
My grandmother once told me a story about a city of blind people. They slept through their days and thrived in the night, not out of choice but nature’s decree. Their blindness made the day irrelevant, and the night—a realm of productivity and purpose. I’m grateful this world isn’t blind. I’m grateful people still sleep at night, surrendering their consciousness to dreams and leaving the nights tender and unclaimed. That’s what makes the night sacred.
Let people toil under the tyranny of the sun, exhaust themselves into sleep. Let me remain awake whenever I can—silent, still, a mirror to the sleeping world.
Ah, the sun is out now. My time to sleep. And if I wake later, burdened by the guilt of having done nothing useful this morning, I shall put the blame where it belongs—on the sweet, drowsy poetry of the night.
