An Hour Before Midnight

The story of Cinderella has led us to falsely believe that the party really begins after the clock strikes twelve, that the hour of rebellion is nigh because one is expected to be doing more lady-like things like acquiring more beauty from within the realm of sleep, or preparing tomorrow's outfit. I believe, however, the party begins much earlier.

Not that early, around an hour earlier actually. I believe the party begins at eleven pm, sixty minutes before Cinderella's curfew is over, and arguably she must have thought so too considering her curfew is an hour away - my reasoning differs from hers, though, and that is what makes the entirety of this post unique. My reason is that at eleven pm on any given weekday, I acquire the same serenity that Monks all over the world try with all their mights to achieve, and I do this without the act of shaving my head or cloaking myself in an orange robe, rather I do it by prolonging the hours I stay awake - by aligning with my insomnia, and pushing open my eyelids for a little while longer.

It is difficult in my family to imagine the sound of silence. Without a single ounce of exaggeration, every time my father speaks it sounds as though there is a brawl happening. It sounds as though at any given moment my father's large fists will penetrate the face of whoever he is allegedly conversing with, and even we, who are entirely used to this factor, mistake his conversations for the initiation of a large brawl, so I cannot imagine the reactions of all the poor onlookers who pass his milk bar, or even enter it. 

And considering it being so difficult to imagine silence, when silence comes along I feel it pulsating through my veins. I feel the heaviness of its presence, weighing down the bottom of the canals leading to my inner-ear drums. I welcome its presence, I quietly roister as it sits with me and I share with it the noiseless peace it brings with it. It is such a contrast, my life before eleven pm and my life after it - from a trumpeting brawl atmosphere to an atmosphere so quiet clouds feel uncomfortable.

And it is the poise of this silence which entrances me the most. I never want to leave its side but I know that that it inevitable when I part with it to enter my bedroom, for my sister snores, and in the absence of her snoring, or along with her snoring, my father and mother's snores filter in and synchronise together and form a, for them, harmonious beat and for me, the beat of insomnia.