Essay | The Irony of the Night Owl

As far back as I can remember—well, scratch that; as far back as my high school years, I have stayed up far too late, beyond the wee hours of the morning, either being very productive or doing nothing at all. I probably had (and still have) some form of manageable insomnia. I’m probably a high-functioning insomniac. I’m a Night Owl.

Tonight is no different. I sit on the couch, surrounded by silence and houseplants, a cat curled up beside me, blissful. It’s all the same to her. The disturbing glow of my phone illuminates our corner of the room—our corner of the couch.

I had planned to spend the evening writing an article on the benefits of sleep, a topic that now feels laughably ironic given my current state and past experience. As I started listing the benefits—improved memory, reduced stress, better mood—I felt like a fraud.

So I stopped writing. 

I read for a while, a book about a woman who decides to do nothing for an entire year, except sleep. More irony. I am her; she is me;—but we are not the same. Halfway through the book, I realized I was on track to finish it in one sitting, which I hadn’t intended to do.

So I stopped reading.

Now it’s nearly 3am. I get up from the couch and walk to the window. It’s August—“the afternoon of the year,” as Georgi Gospodinov wrote. Here, now, 3am is too early—or too late—to witness any signs of life outside. It’s the afternoon of the night for the Night Owl.

The window is a mirror. I see the cat stretch behind me, yawn, and settle back into position, still blissful. I turn away from the window to study a houseplant. “Use sentient in a sentence,” I tell it. It doesn’t answer. 

I look at the cat, raising one eyebrow as if to prove a point. She’s asleep. 

I admire the design of the plant’s leaves—the way each leaf unfurls and grows toward the light. In this moment, the world seems to exist in quiet repose, happily devoid of the conscious and constant awareness that defines and disrupts my own existence. But the plant, the cat, and what I can’t see outside are alive, awake, aware in ways I can’t comprehend. Sentience is a spectrum.

I look again at the cat, raising both eyebrows and sighing as if to admit defeat. She yawns.

I look outside once more, then down at the cat again, and then at the book. I consider whether I should pick it up and continue reading. Maybe I could learn something from this woman who sleeps.

But then, I’d miss all these moments of silence.