I find that my wheels turn faster in the dead of night. I had the (mis) fortune of realizing this back in my sophomore year of high school, where I learned to appreciate the gifts of productivity that total silence offered. The kind of quiet that the sandman offered was some sort of gateway drug. It was something that you can’t bargain for during the day, where distractions were endemic even if you tried your best to avoid them. For me, at least. Instead of fighting a losing battle, I took it in stride to have the sleeping world work for me, and not against me.
And so I found myself grinding away the late hours where I could isolate myself from the rest of the world’s clatter. When I wake up in the morning to forcefully assimilate myself in society’s morning driven 8-hour rat race ethic, I am rewarded with poofy eyebags, a dazed disposition, and a perennially effed up body clock.
Time is never really linear. At the end of the day, aren’t our perceptions of it a tad bit more important than the truth it supposedly belongs to?