As an introvert author in Victoria BC Canada, being nocturnal was GRAND at first. There’s a 24/7 grocery store a twenty-minute walk from my abode. My smile was huge when I strutted down the busiest road in my neighborhood one faithful night. There was not a single person to be seen. It may be because I like to think more than I speak but damn was it ever nice not to have loud cars zipping around chaotically as I performed my thang down the serene sidewalk, thinking too much for my own good.
If you consider walking a form of meditation, then you probably already know how great walking at night can be. My city doesn’t have what you could call a prominent nightlife, especially on Tuesdays. When it comes to nighttime traffic, obviously Downtown Victoria, Esquimalt and James Bay are different stories compared to Gorden Head and Oak Bay. That’s exactly why being nocturnal could be interesting for an extrovert as well. No matter which jungle or forest you live in, there should always be something to do. But if your forest is full of crickets, wanting someone to talk to can drag you back into daytime life. And that’s when we stop talking about things that can be interesting.
Notice how I said at first in the very first sentence of this mediocre blog post.
I did that because I was a noobie to the nocturnal life about six months ago and now it’s catching up quick, Billy Boy. If you want to be nocturnal, you have to BE nocturnal or else you’ll become one of those sleepy, grumpy people (hopefully not, this was a joke with a hint of truth is all). During my half-year experimentation extravaganza, I fell into all sorts of slips and cycles of sleep and the drear no sleep at all.
My favorite part was when I WAS nocturnal. I hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
That was at first. Ah, it was wonderful. I was writing the ending to Knights of the Dawn on Halloween night. That whole week I had gained a ritual of a routine. I would stir out of bed to become the raccoon the neighbors hear in their sleep. With Lord Spywater and his epic last stand against Lord Highcross spiraling through my head, I took long walks in a pitch-black soccer field. The air was so dark all around me that I could open my eyes and envision everything I was to write happening live before my eyes like virtual reality. I pictured the mist skirting the destriers’ hocks as the knights led the wains of death down the road. I looked to the midnight firmament and descried Lord Spywater’s raven swooping down from a bright blue dawn. That bloody book Knights of the Dawn would not have been the same if I hadn’t taken those eldritch midnight walks, I tell ya.
At first it was wonderful. Now as I write this I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours and I don’t know why I’m writing this. I’m hungry but I’m too tired and lazy to go to the store, plus I don’t want to deal with all those noisy, chaotic cars. Take from this what you will. I’m going to bed.