I miss my college days when a pair of us stayed awake nights oh-so-often, and chatted. We always has so much to say. So much to tell each other. Our discussions almost never revolved around girly things and we came to many important conclusions. I loved the night.
On good days, startling clarity is achieved in those wee hours of the morning when a deliciousness steals over you, fueled by coffee, sugar and the knowledge that the next day will go without any rest. And you hoard all you heard and said while revelling in the hoarseness of the throat from having talked so much.
Classmates wondered what I always had to say that filled a night, so frequently and how I went without any sleep. There were days when I wondered too. Did we truly have so much to say and discuss? I thought it was something that I would outgrow with college.
As years passed, work dominated life more and more and there were fewer friends left, with whom I wanted to stay awake with or even wanted to spend a night talking, in an non-alcoholic stupor.
It was a sad demise, I thought and wondered if that delicious tiredness would ever be felt again. There is nothing that compares to that next morning, when you remember all you discussed and argued over and bared your soul over.
The night is this fantastic blanket, under which you can say anything and nobody thinks differently of you in the morning, but something has still changed implicitly. To give an analogy, it’s like sex: when done under the garb of the night, things seem unchanged in the morning but yet something has altered on a fundamental level. Conversation is like that.
I am happy to announce that side of me is back. I am having the most amazing all-night conversations regularly. What’s even better is every time there are new people which is so much better than talking to people you know.