March 24, 2010

The Night

The night time is such a surreal time for me. I think to myself, I'm mostly alone right now. The majority of people are asleep and off into their own little conjured up worlds inside their minds. I'm the last remaining fortress fighting off sleep and waiting for the light of the next day to break through.

The breaking of dawn is absolutely beautiful.
I keep remembering dawn back in my home town in Laos. The sun would barely peak over the tree line but the roosters were already "kooing" away. I wake up to the warm smell of my grandma or grandpa stoking the fire. I see my parents awake and talking downstairs to the neighbors, and the family helper fetching some water from the well down the road. There is a sleepy mist, or rather fog that blankets the land. I remember the calmness, the coolness, and the feeling of those mornings. But most of all, I remember that smoky smell from the fire.

Back to reality, the dawn in Minneapolis is much different. I wake up, tired. It doesn't matter how much sleep I get, I always seem to be tired. What's wrong with me? I look at the clock and don't get out of bed unless I have to. I fight off beginning the day, choosing instead to stay in the safety of my blanket. Everything is safe here. Everything is peaceful. My worries and failures can't find me here if I just hide.

I muster up strength to get ready for the day.
I am in the shower, the glimmer of the sun breaks through the opaque glass.
I wonder if it's going to be a good day.

The night. Oh, the night. There's nothing I need to be worried about. Everything seems so far away, everything is always tomorrow. Everything is always when I wake up and rejoin the real world. I'm able to exist in the darkness only with the guidance of my little desk lamp and the warmth and comfort of the TV glowing in the background reassuring my connection with society and reassuring that I'm not all alone.

It's the best way to be alone, without really feeling alone.

I spend my time staring at the computer screen. Cycling through old photos, working on little art projects, and talking to the computer through the keyboard. All the while my favorite songs pierce my thoughts as if to divide and organize the fragments and muddy up my feelings and emotions at the same time.

I think about the past.
Plan for tomorrow.
Ignore the present.

PM turns into AM.

At night, when I feel the most peace... this music is the decryption to my thoughts. I listen, hoping that something profound will strike me. What does everything mean? I don't know. The music churns away in my head while the world sleeps. Everyone else dreams in auto, I try in manual.

At night, when I feel peace I get a sense of who I should be. I have an idealistic way of how I want to be. I know what needs to be done, and what is right. It's my soothing medication. Too much of it turns into poison. I poison myself daily. My intentions are good but they don't come out right. I fear the aftermath, so I hide in my bed, hoping that it just passes and it's night again so I can feel at peace.

At night, I miss my friends. I remember all the good times we've shared, and look forward to future. I hate my self withdrawal, but welcome it with open arms. I'm an abused lover in madly in love with the one who hurts me. Why? It's not so simple. I can't fully express to my friends, I don't expect them to care nor understand. If I deal with my own problems, everything is okay for them.

Eventually even television goes to bed. I struggle to find something that has some type of soul within it. Infomercials are soulless, heartless creatures that serve no purpose but to sell. Nothing that invigorates the mind, provokes new thought, but just to sell.

I've found my new late night muse, NHK-World.
One more connection to Japan.

I consider going for a drive. I love downtown when it's dead. Wandering through the streets at the feet of tall buildings, I can't help but feel as if I'm driving through a sort of artificially human and civilized forest. The occasional taxi or police car are the animals that scamper about, and the rare human is the insect that infests the trunks of the wilderness.

I stand downtown and just stare straight up.
I feel so insignificant, and I'm okay with it.

At night, I don't feel eyes on me. I don't have anything to worry about, or anyone to fear to offend, or repulse. I don't need the recognition or confirmation of my existence from anyone else at this time, because there isn't anyone there. Everyone is gone.

My neighbors wake to start their day. I hear them scrounging around in the darkness above. I wonder who they really are. The only piece of information I get is from the scuffling across the floor boards. I wonder what they're doing. I wonder if they are happy. I'm jealous of them.

I wish I was "normal". And at the end of that sentence, I immediately wish it weren't so.

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