At the Witching Hour

A 67 year old Vietnamese farmer has not slept in the past 33 years. He came down with a fever once a long time ago, and since then he has been stricken with insomnia. Amazingly enough, he was given a clean bill of health, with the exception of some liver damage, last time he visited a doctor. The news story is slightly reminiscent of something out of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez's brand of magic realism, and I'm frankly left perplexed.

My attitudes have changed somewhat over the years. And perhaps, after some statistical averaging, one could make the case that I've steadily matured in despite many fits and starts. Most notably, I used to think highly of staying up, burning the midnight oil, and working steadily through the night. But nowadays, I would only resort to such extreme study habits if the scenario posed was worst-case. In fact, even then, I would be much more inclined to give up and rely on some hours of good rest over desperate attempts to patch up some significant holes in a problem set or in my understanding of a subject.

In despite of the obvious deleterious health effects associated with such insomniac behaviors, I think a certain dark magic becomes apparent as the hours tend steadily forward through the night and toward imminent daybreak. Oftentimes, those moments are best spent with someone else, someone you really care about. But more often than not, those moments are spent fighting off devilish attacks schemed up by a beloved friend turned enemy. Spending late nights and early mornings alone is the most taxing. If finding myself during those times alone were possible, I'd think that I would have found myself at least a hundred times over. In the end, you find yourself chasing after ghosts summoned up by an indefatigable imagination.

Sometimes these long nights are caused by supposed dead ends. I think for a long time, I was consumed with the fear that I had been rendered immobile. Turns out, all I needed was some suggestion to get moving again -- but even then, sometimes not without a fight, for I'm a stubborn and obstinate fool among the worst.

Movies can show insomnia and early mornings spent with another without giving the slightest intimation as to the emotion proscribed by actual physical sense. An early morning after no sleep should be dewy, with a distinct bit of chill which runs up high into your nose -- setting up camp for an indefinite period. A distinct rumbling comes from below as hunger pangs set in. Your body has been running non-stop for an entire night and much energy was burnt on the laughter or the crying or the lonely, withdrawn thoughts and recollections. All of this sets the stage for an inimitable sense of enlightened thought and wisdom. With daybreak comes the closure. No words are necessary because all is known and common. Simple. Beautiful. Elegant. In the bleary eyed ranting and ravings of the sleepless.

My last weeks at Wabash, I found myself blacked out and intoxicated or interminably awake and sober. Maybe I'm the only one to find that fitting and appropriate, a properly defining moment.