11 p.m. comes in just as it’s expected to and I meet it hazy and a little disoriented, ready to let go and grant my subconscious free reign over the next eight hours of canvas. I’m going to listen to a little bit of music and drift off, and when the first couple of songs don’t do it I’ll just skate through a couple more until I’m sliding out for the next morning. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but something about the way the melodies and lyrical execution are moving feels as satisfying as the way my bed is curving in to my yearning-for-rest body, so maybe I’ll be a little late for my scheduled check-out.
Somewhere along the one song-to-the-next I rediscover some old favourites like an amnesiac finding out they’re older than they thought, and here are the teen years I thought I had mapped and recorded like a cartographer suddenly discovering new land. Not new land though but old land with my boot prints in the mud fossilized and clearly a size or two smaller from their eventual full growth. I’m comfortable though in pants, socks, and a long-sleeve and buzzing just the right amount to slip those old fits on and walk around down the lane to revisit some of those landmarks again.
It’s a little past 11 p.m now, but oh wow it’s really not because despite my eyes being centimetres from a clock it’s really free-fell hours and is sitting at 2 a.m. I should have known from how many times I’ve re-filled my water and emptied my bladder that this little detour has become a full-blown press tour for teenage-me’s autobiography. I don’t want to waste tomorrow though, so I’m going to put the orange-glow of my night-mode phone down and head to sleep now.