While everyone sleeps, you stay up. You sit with your back against the wall and with your head in your hands. The room is dark, barring the light from the computer screen.

A hundred thoughts try and sell you the idea of sleeping. The bed covers are all balled up at your feet and suddenly you feel the need to draw them close, as the temperature drops. You close your eyes and think. You think as hard as possible to come up with something interesting, something pleasantly absurd, and something brilliant to write about. You read a few things and you’re momentarily inspired, but that fizzles off with the clawing sleepy feeling that now has made some room inside of your head. The idea of working the next day, in a sleep deprived state, isn’t too pleasant either.

You contemplate writing something mediocre. Nobody cares, you think. You convince yourself that you will write something path-breaking soon enough to wipe out the memory of the second-rate piece you’re about to write.

This thought cheers you up for a minute, because this means you can write something and just turn it in, and then crawl into bed.

You write a few lines, feeling strangely liberated because you aren’t erasing them every two minutes. You don’t bother if they’re well written. You don’t bother about anything.

Then, suddenly it hits you and you are taken up with guilt. You write for yourself. Perhaps the people out there will scoff now at your bad writing and then eat their words with your masterpiece, but you’ll always know that you gave up on working your best at something because you were sleepy. You will not be able to shield yourself from yourself.

Then, you write and erase and repeat the procedure till you write something you’re pleased with. It isn’t a masterpiece perhaps, but you know you aren’t let down.

The next morning you don’t even realize that you have slept only for two hours.