Insomnia

2023, London

I’m not sure when it started, but I’ve grown used to waking up at 5 AM every day. I used to envy my friends who could sleep for hours on end. If sleep could be stolen, I would have gladly become a thief, sneaking away the time that belonged neither to day nor night, stealing moments of tranquil dreams from them.

But perhaps I’ve grown accustomed to this by now, and over time, this routine has become something I find strangely delightful. I’ve begun to observe the subtle changes around me during the quiet hours of dawn. First of all, I must give credit to my soft bed and downy duvet—in their embrace, I feel like an ostrich burying itself in the sand. It’s autumn in London now, though the most beautiful part of the season has quietly passed, leaving behind a hint of winter’s desolation. In early September, the dawn sky would still carry a faint glow—languid and gentle, like a beauty caught between sleep and wakefulness. In those moments, I would open my window to let the outdoor breeze pour in, rest my head on the pillow, and gaze intently at the distant skyline, watching as the sky brightened bit by bit. Then, I’d listen to the world awakening—this was a time that belonged solely to me.

I’ve always loved London’s autumn, even though it is so fleeting. There’s a special stillness to it that resonates with how this city makes me feel. Beneath this calm, however, lurks a trace of coldness and distance—something I find myself quite fond of. On the streets, people wrap themselves tightly in scarves and coats. Even on the crowded subway, I don’t have to brush against the skin of strangers. As the weather grows colder, I find myself spending more and more time alone, speaking less and less—in other words, embracing more solitude. It’s not that I don’t love my friends enough—I do, very much, and I treasure every moment spent with them. But there’s a part of me that awakens every autumn and winter—a part that revels in the icy air, exhaling soft clouds of breath, and joyfully filling every fleeting second with deeper thoughts. This part of me is always hungry, always thirsty. She feeds on words, on books, on art. This kind of hunger feels like something more essential, more primal, perhaps to her—or to me. In countless mornings and nights, this hunger stirs with her as she wakes and lingers as she drifts into sleep.

I think I’ve come to understand the reason for my insomnia. I am still a thief, but instead of stealing others' sleep and dreams, I’ve stolen a little extra time from the transitions between day and night. In this stolen time, I savor the changing seasons. Spring belongs to unopened buds and flushed cheeks. Summer belongs to beer, beaches, and crowds. Autumn belongs to poetry, to falling leaves, to the flowing streams in the woods. Winter belongs to storage boxes and padded jackets—storing warmth, storing fire, storing memories.