It's 3.30am and I'm sitting on my sofa listening to the wind companionably whipping through the buddleia branches, causing them to tap against the window whilst rain smatters intermittently on to the panes. All of a sudden I am recalling a book which I was instructed by my dissertation supervisor twelve years ago to read: a book by Joris-Karl Huysmans entitled À Rebours (or, in English, 'Against Nature'). I didn't get very far with it, but I do remember being somewhat appalled (yet fascinated) by the premise, and the central character - a disillusioned aristocrat attempting to retreat into a world of pure decadence and artifice. Holed up in his country home, far away from society, he lives by his own rhythm - shunning the natural routines of daytime wakefulness, and eats whatever he pleases, unconcerned with health or balance. He surrounds himself with artefacts and decor that reinforce this preference for the fantastical.
Why do I feel compelled to immediately find a copy of this book and promptly devour it? Perhaps I feel a strong affinity with it's protagonist... Without wanting to, I very often find myself living a life that feels at odds with the natural order of things.
Feeling most at peace when, at last, giving in to dysfunction. Like now, at first I fight the insomnia - despairing over the fact of being awake when all I want is to unconscious; oblivious, free from awareness of my pain-racked body and wayward mind. But, once the inevitable rise and stumble into dressing-gown takes place, gritty eyes adjusting to the (artificial) light, a sense of relief comes. True time to myself - in the early hours when there's no-one to confide in but myself; nowhere to turn but inwards.
The angst/panic that companies finding myself (yet again) battling the pain, fatigue, nausea - alone and out of rhythm with society - turns to delight. Delight in the imaginative possibilities open to me at this hour, in this existential bind; the energy suddenly available when the incessant striving for normalcy ceases. Comparison with others becomes futile when there's only me, a cup of tea and a pen. Accepting who I am in this moment - a creature of the night.
