I tell myself that I’m a night owl who strives to be an early bird. I love the feeling of a whole day stretched before me, full of possibility and time. So I try to wake early. But more often, I find myself awake at night.

Midnight me has its flaws. At 12am, I oftentimes feel my words are raw and brilliant, but I read it again in the morning to find that it was sentimentally overdone. I end up deleting and changing the wording of soppy phrases into something sharper, more composed. I also lose a concept of time and self when it gets too late. I speak without thinking, act without pause, and suddenly I’ve turned the last page of a book and the clock says 4am.

But, I love this version of me. I’ve probably read more pages than I’ve ever read after 12am. Probably written more journal entries than I’ve ever written after 12am. Definitely imagined more stories than I’ve ever imagined after 12am. And yearned more than I’ve ever yearned after 12am. 

This is the me that is most creative, most authentic, most human. And maybe this sentimental, unashamed, uncomposed self — the one awho writes and dreams in the dark — is the truest me of all.

♒︎.♒︎.♒︎.

written @ 12:26am