I almost didn’t get to the post today.
In fact, it’s an hour and change past midnight on the day after, but my days typically end around four in the morning the next day anyway.
I have been fighting this circadian tendency since I was in college, so as soon as I could elect not to be a morning person, I did, historically. A part of me thinks I should just accept myself as a late night person but a part of me also thinks that I stay up late as a way to steal time for myself, as if delaying sleep somehow delays tomorrow, even as tomorrow shines through the window at the end of my longest nights.
And really, I’m not expected in the morning often. When I have morning appointments I become a diurnal creature, waking for the morning then sleeping through the day and still waking up to have my night.
One of my favorite Lady Gaga songs is Marry The Night. I loved it so much that it inspired a poem a few years ago, a poem about the people I’ve met in Detroit, a kind of rite of passage I’ve seen this odd collection of thirty-somethings stumble through.
So I think to honor the night, and the last post of this week, I’ll end it by publishing the poem here.
I married the night, or rather
We did. Fists clenched. Pleather and
Cigarettes outside speaking
Mindless drivel. We were
The ones who fooled each other; but
What’s real, anyway?
That’s not it. That’s not it.
A mild opinion laid down like gospel.
An ornamental aside.
What’s this difference between us?
We hang our jackets up at home.
We shove them back into some crowded closet. We quit smoking and
Learn to cook. We hum a tune sung long
Ago, stowed away deep
In our DNA like a film score, and the
Thin lines make art out of the