A creature of the shade

Sadly, I have become a creature of the night.
I wish there were some interesting angles to this, but sadly again, there aren't. Some characteristics that include too much sugar and not enough melatonin but besides, nothing at all.
The melatonin problem is an old one, I suspect. As far as I could remember, I have always had trouble falling asleep. This might have contributed to my addiction to literature, or it might have been the other way around. Long story short, when someone declares that they have sleep problems, it gives me a deep and fundamental sense of connection, unmatched by anything else, such as love for rationalism, appreciation of the fine things in life or an abstract way of talking.
It returns during lazy days, such as the ones I am currently living. Bayrozgari is more a state of mind than anything else, but the support it lends to a nocturnal lifestyle is horrifyingly strong. When you literally do not have anything to get up for in the morning, why get up at all? Why not get up at 5 in the evening, if you must, constrained by the biology of homo sapiens?
Ah, how our ancestry binds us. How I wish I could go back and select some other specie as my ancestor-something that slept more. As much as possible, ideally.
People rarely sympathize with my love for all things Kylo Ren, but it is an under-appreciated fact that the dark side has immense pull, at least on some dark natures. I have been observing somewhat self-styled bayrozgari for about 2.5 months, and I was a punctual creature for most of it. To bed at 12 AM, up about 9 in the morning. Most proper and remarkable and commendable.
Except, alas, the normalcy was fragile, as everywhere else. Something is there and you think it is always going to be there in the exact same state and you are going to be there in the exact same state and the phenomenon of observation is going to exist indefinitely in the future and the laws of physics are going to hold up forever. The laws of physics do do that, but as for the rest, it is just a sad oversimplification on the part of human beings. Absolutely no stepping in the same river twice for anyone.
Dwelling too much on this nature of reality can trigger anxiety, if combined with an immature way of handling change. The mature way isn't very sophisticated either; it just informs you to suck it up and take it in stride and move on and live in the moment.
I had been searching for answers to questions of power and stability in systems that involve multiple human beings, mostly inspired by my last workplace. It was an interesting place, to say the least. I absolutely liked my boss, but he had his 'issues' and he proved inadequate at dealing with them. I fear I might have catalyzed a chain reaction of firing there, but on my behalf, it was either that job or the remnants of my mental health.
The virus and the ensuing cascade of catastrophes have raised some very serious questions, and I shall be looking into them, like a proper scholar of human specie as I pretend to be. Today, however I will try to keep to the main point.
My requiem for stability stems from the fact that I went to bed a bit late just two nights in a row maybe, but it was enough to get me on a fixed schedule of going to sleep at least at 9 in the morning, and not a minute earlier. The ease with which I lose my footing horrifies me at times. For goodness's sake, instability should be unstable. Instead, it is the most stable thing in the world. When you fall down, you firmly remain there, forever glued to the nadirs. Maybe this can be used as an argument to show that evil and deviations from norms are, like, really low in a moral and theoretical sense, and not just alternative lifestyles.
Ah well, normalcy is an elusive spirit anyway. If they were selling it somewhere, I would have sold off all other possessions to buy some of it.
Experiences are subjective and memory is shaded. What even is the worth of stability? Things are beautiful precisely because they don't last. If you sit down and analyze the last decade of your life, you are left with fleeting impressions. A sparkle in a pair of green eyes. A stammer, coming from a glib speaker. A smile from a squash court that absolutely stopped your heart. A recitation of poetry on the roads, under a full moon, to absolutely adequate appreciation. Honest exclamations that I am a rare creature. What would these moments be, if prolonged? A drag and a burden.
Fine things are fine, but what I actually need in my life is the ability to go by myself to my favourite place and eat as much as I want.
Recently I got a lecture on ability and capability, and wasting thereof. I sulked in response, and fixed my deviant bedtime. I am going to stick to it.
Very narcissistic point of view, but as soon as I plan to fix my life, some new and utterly unforeseen catastrophe arises. Someone just had to go and release this virus from the wild. They took pity on it and introduced it in polite society as they would never introduce me. The virus, on the other side, proved fairly egalitarian and sociable. If one has to die from it, that can't be helped at all, but meanwhile I am going to be happy and myself. Utterly myself. If I am a late night sleeper, I am one, end of discussion. There isn't anything I can do about it. Embrace my inner bat, so to speak, except that they have impressive immune systems, whereas mine is fairly non-existent.
There was this otherwise silly movie about Virginia Woolf, which gave me the answer to a long standing question. I have always felt that I am more a spectator of the spectacle of life than anything else. An observer, a very third person. Never ever the first or the second one. A third rate woman to boot too, but that is a separate discussion.
I talked about this to people, crafted this feeling in my poetry, slipped it in my prose. I never got an answer from anyone. In this movie, the Virginia character said the exact same thing, and the other woman laid bare the crux of the matter in a single sentence.
Because you think when instead you should feel.
There is an upside to watching such movies, folks. Once in a decade, you get the answer to a question that matters. How one actually goes about the business of feeling is an altogether more complicated problem, methinks, and one that is above my paygrade. Not my circus, not my monkeys.