3:00 am thoughts. Do you have those? Or do you sleep straight through the night, just like you did when you were a kid? I used to do that too — used to be a champion sleeper.
I shift and scoot my back up against the wall. Tuck my pillow under my cheek. It’s not enough to muffle the sounds: radiators clanking, mice scattering, trucks plowing, cars passing, men cursing. Somewhere, faintly: a baby wailing.
It’s too early to get up.
There are 0 new text messages. A laptop that needs charging. A mattress asking for air.
I feel deflated too. Because how am I going to do this, really.
I’m honestly not sure. And maybe I should do this not knowing in a place that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, every month.
Maybe I don’t want to live in New York, where I can go in at 10:00 in the morning but I really can’t leave until 8:00 or 9:00 at night. Where people click-clack to work and click-clack to the bar and click-clack home.
Where dinner can best be described as a midnight snack, halved with a fork on a cold plate, with a coat half on and half off.
Maybe I don’t belong here. Where sleep is for the stagnant and breakfast is just something to be grabbed on the way.
Maybe this was a mistake. You think all of this wait-where-am-I is just so goddamn irritating. It’s too slow. Do you want to know what I think? I think your snow is really just slush. It only looks pretty.
This might make me a total dud, but I don’t want a job that I have to big-time bluff my way into. Where I have to try to be something that I’m not — where I have to do the exact opposite of what I’m trying to do here. At the risk of being just a little too honest, I’m not especially good at math, or 100% at ease on the phone, or even remotely comfortable saying I speak CSS or HTML.
In the glow of 2:59 am, my idea of a good business model involves individual notes penned onto pretty stationary and small batch granola poured into boxes. Full to overflowing, and then sealed and stamped and sent to twentysomethings all over the world, all just waiting for morning.
Never mind profitability. The demand is there, I think. I think there are people who are hungry for encouragement and totally up for some homemade granola. And I want to write to them.
I want to write to them, and I want to keep writing to you, here, and I want to think about maybe writing something longer, someday. I want to take a ceramics class on Saturday and I want to think about what might make sense, for me. Maybe baker’s hours?
3:00 am thoughts will turn into 4:00 am thoughts, and then a fitful, uneasy sleep. When I roll over again it will be morning, not the middle of the night.
It will be morning and there will be sun peeking through. There will be something blooming.
There will be a loop to run and a banana to peel and a spoon to lick and a chocolate to unwrap.
Later on, there will be a good place to sit. For as long as I want.
But the day will end, and night will come; it always does. Darkness will fall, and it will be all too obvious, again: I am a match that just won’t strike.