There’s nothing quite like the feeling you get when you scratch “sleep” off of your to-do list. It’s intimidating but liberating — another bodily restraint you’ve ostensibly freed yourself from.
You consign “semi-regular sleep cycle” to the scrap pile of nonessential needs with its companions “three square meals a day” and “hygiene,” and suddenly your homework window opens up like an eager psychiatric patient who’s been stocking up on trauma for years and just needs somebody to talk to.
And then, like an Augustinian monk well-versed in self-sacrifice, you cloister yourself in the UL, subordinating your worldly physical considerations to study and the redemptive salvation of your GPA.
There’s something almost mystical about it. All analogies aside, the all-nighter in the library is one of those twisted, mind-bending experiences that we don’t often stop to think about. I write my best papers that way (also my worst), and in the last couple of years, I’ve started to appreciate the way my mind works when deprived of its most basic needs.
Reality starts to become decidedly unreal as soon as you hit upon the auditory hallucinations — never before has waking up to violin been so disorienting. Even supposedly normal things start to feel weird when you can’t be sure you’re not dreaming.