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I'm considering becoming nocturnal.

I mean, look at what types of animals are up at night. They're all kinda creepy but cool. They feature in prominently at Halloween. Owls. Bats. Raccoons (okay, so raccoons are not creepy, but they're very cool- especially once you've watched The Great Outdoors with John Candy and Dan Akroyd and wow, tangent much?).

There's just something about it. A different society blossoms at night. The darkness breathes and the majority of the world around you does not remember you exist through their weighted eyelids. The earth is mine. More than the immediate five square feet... it's mine. I can reach out my arms and hug it, and no one will think I'm crazy because no one's there. (Although I suggest doing this in areas without surveillance cameras... they keep straightjackets on hand, they really do.)

People in Tokyo are eating rice while I play card games on Neopets. Some poor guy in London is waking up to go to work. Hawaiians are watching the sunset. And then there's me, blending into the black and infinitely perfect because there's nobody to tell me otherwise.

I listen to Letting the Cables Sleep and feel that strange singing in my head because it's so, so late but my body is working on the inertia of an active mind. It's wonderful.

But when it ends, it's like walking on the bottom of the ocean- there is no pillow deep enough, no mattress soft enough, and your body is heavy enough to sink through the floor once you get it horizontal.

I wonder whether I could become nocturnal once I'm a silly eccentric spinster, waiting twenty years for my chance to write at 4 in the morning, sleeping by day so I don't hear phone or doorbell, enjoying the lack of children to watch when it's dark and enjoying that the dark is mine, not shared with some hubbie snoring with his socks on in the Lazy Boy. I could shuffle softly on the computer keys, smiling into my dog's too-bright eyes when I accidentally wake him, just me and the words and the world is mine, mine, mine.

It just hurts waking again. The sun is cloying, the bright world is empty and divided into six billion shares, and I'm still that silly old woman who didn't make that age-37 deadline, after all.

I see it so clearly. And it's a darned sight better than the trailer-park visions I had before, so that's saying something.

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