Insomnia in the City That Never Sleeps

The city is known for its lights. It’s known for many things, but people seem to remember the lights. Stars shining at the horizon, so bright they blot out the celestial bodies that inspired them. Electric torches fill every window of every tower. Miles of metal and mortar, all lit to reinforce the image of the unsleeping New York.

But not tonight. Tonight a gloomy fog fills the landscape. The lights are muted and combined to form an orange glow that stretches throughout the boroughs. Famous paintings and postcards become moot. The skyline is gone. There are no towers or bridges. No castles or keeps. No exits. Streetlamps become dismal beacons lining invisible byways. Only the adjoining buildings seem to poke through the tangerine cloud. The smokestacks, fingers of a dark hand pushing through the haze.

I sip my drink slowly as some nameless tune whispers through my headphones. The slow, somber piano mimics my mood. The city’s mood. It’s late and we both should be sleeping. Me, on a hard mattress with flat pillows, her, smothered in a citrus blanket. We fight the urge to rest together. I can’t turn my waking dreams off, my mind working at too fast a pace. The silence of her fog is cut with dim headlights and the occasional siren. We resist.

Just like the night before, there is no rationale for me to be awake at this hour. I have no hobby, no novel to keep my attention. No drugs or stimulants course through me, artificially maintaining my perception. The exact opposite is true. The alcohol depresses my wits and slows my hands. It aids my fatigue and pulls my body closer to the chair. But still, I cling to my consciousness and stare into the mist.

New York needs no justification for activity this evening. “Always Open” does not allow for conditional weather factors. Even if impenetrable fog hides people and buildings and thick air muffles all sounds. The reputation alone keeps her vigorous. Be it snow, rain, wind, fire, or smoke, nothing alters the business hours. Even tonight when no rational person would be patrolling the streets and the visibility is so low you couldn’t tell if anyone was out there anyway. The city is unwavering.

I am not. I finally succumb to my exhaustion and collapse upon my bed. I roll over to get one more glimpse of the dull orange light before I close my eyes. I wonder what the other eight million people in the city are doing at this moment. Eight million strangers, sleeping and dreaming. Am I the last one awake? The only person unable to find rest on this quiet night? The fog begins to clear while my drunken sleep deepens. Buildings seem to grow out of nothingness as the city is cleansed. As I become less lucid, I hope for some comfort from the newly revealed New York. I give one last look into the skyline, but I’m unable to find any understanding or sympathy. I’m not surprised. That isn’t what the city is known for.