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It's always in the most ungodly of hours that creativity sneaks in.

Ever since the beginning of my second year, my body clock has gone way off base. Before, midnight meant that distant acquaintance I just bump into ever so rarely, but now it's like a good old friend welcoming me into the deeper retreats of dawn. I blame acads for this of course. Why else would I be sleeping late if it weren't for papers and reports to finish? But okay, sometimes it's Facebook's fault too (and Plurk's.) And yes, I'm still also partly blaming the jet lag from my US trip last summer -- hey, it was fifteen long hours!

I am not an insomniac, just to clarify things. No, I am not in denial. I still can sleep at night when I will myself to sleep. I just close my eyes shut and off I go to deep slumber. But I can't believe that I actually got used to this staying up late. Me, the sleepyhead. Me, the conscious eight-hour-sleeper. Me, who hated staying up late for anything. And now look at me. I am a shadow of the night. I lie in wait for the darkness. I have become part of that elusive dimness that I used to tiptoe in hesitantly. I am an acquired, self-taught, insomniac. I don't like it but I have to.

It happens when there are pages of critical analyses waiting to be done, or stories to be written, or poems to be revised. For some reason, ideas just do not come to me in broad daylight. It's as if words escape me on purpose, tormenting me as I stare dumbly at the blinking vertical cursor on screen. It's torture especially when my whole body is aching for the bed, whose sheets are longing to wrap themselves around me and, and the pillows, which my arms so badly want to embrace. But I cannot because my mind cannot fathom sleeping without getting any work done. And so I slave myself off into the night, with inspiration dawning upon me only until the wee hours of the morning. (Maybe it's supposed to dawn at dawn? Hmm.)

But honestly, I've slowly found comfort in the night. When everyone else is asleep, no one asking, no one talking, no one to entertain, no one to listen to -- that's when I feel most at ease. I used to think that I could not survive in silence; I had to talk, I had to hear something, someone. And yet, it surprises me how I crave for the quietude that only the depths of the night can give me. It's the only time I can think to myself, talk to myself, hear myself. Reaching this level of stillness always give me some sort of high, like I can go to places or I can come up with something incredible. It's always in these ungodly hours that I feel attuned with everything but yet only aware of myself.

It's weird shit, I know.

I think it's because of these post-midnight moments that I realize how much I actually value silence and my alone time. Nowadays, I don't like being disturbed that much. I do mind when my personal bubble is invaded. Sometimes, I just really want to go home and hibernate. So what, have I been unconsciously turned into a hermit? Have I been deceiving myself, all my life thinking I was a social butterfly but deep down I'm really an introvert, a loner? Well, I do enjoy hanging out with friends and family, meeting new people, talking about anything and everything. But I guess it's just also rewarding to have these quiet moments all to myself. It soothes me. Ironically, I am able to recharge myself in my sleeplessness.

But wait. Who am I kidding? I love sleeping. I really do. I'd give anything to have a decent eight-hour slumber. Lack of sleep is bad for the health. It causes breakouts and does not allow you to get the complete rest and recharging your body needs for another day's work. It's not good at all. Why am I even justifying this? WHY?

I blame the jet lag. And maybe, sleeplessness.