Insomnia. A wretched noun defined as the “inability to fall asleep”: that is helplessness: that is ineffectiveness: basically incapacity—to perform the art of suspending conscious awareness at four in the morning when it barely looks dark outside. Hope is the first thing that’s lost, but the attempt is inevitable, the outcome a travesty. 

What a strange feat to achieve a perfectly inverse result,  to want to sleep and yet to remain awake! And there it is, like summoning a ghost, a persistent vibration under the pillow next to me. And I say to myself, this is one of those moments that shouldn’t have happened. I got maybe fifty seconds, maybe less. I look around, but it’s too dark, and I’m lazy and indisposed to turn on a light, so I uncover the window and point straight to a red traffic light. Shows 3, then 2, 1. Then there you have it. There’s my celebrated moment: a red traffic light—a fitting metaphor to my own inactivity.

I sluggishly flick the square to see what’s happening on the end of the stranger. Minnesota, a white (almost yellow-ish) wall showcasing posters of what I assumed to be movies, bands, and TV shows. Minnesota? Whoever this is doesn’t seem to be bothered by how late it is, look at that nice angle, look at how bright this wall is, look at how clear the picture, whoever took this was quite focused and didn’t flinch: what a nice snapshot. Can you see it?

I sluggishly flick the square to see what’s happening on the end of the stranger. Minnesota, a white (almost yellow-ish) wall showcasing posters of what I assumed to be movies, bands, and TV shows.

I think: this is it, this is the species referred to as remote workers…or happy insomniacs. 

Or maybe they’ve just accepted their fate, whereas I’m struggling to embrace the night, or morning, or whatever it is at this point. This is inspiring. 

That’s a movie I know: Oldboy. A big poster. Don’t remember much other than that it’s about vengeance, a man that’s kidnapped and somehow escapes or is released. so I gave in and rented the film. Clock says 4:28, I say fine, make some coffee, and watch the thing.

There’s something poignant about sharing with a stranger the view of a bright and luscious red traffic light and, in return, getting a nice movie recommendation. But there’s also something quite absurd about it. Like when I’m working, and the unsuspected vibration attracts my hand like a magnet. What a gift to share whatever open tab I click first to hide the empty “docs” tab next to it and receive in turn some random picture of a couch or the realization that when I see this photo again, all I’ll remember is the hidden empty docs tab–which of course, the point was to forget about. 

And there is something bittersweet, maybe even bizarre, about the kinds of relationships you form with the objects some random person chose to photograph. I mean, why that wall? I doubt they were looking at it right before their own phone vibrated and interrupted whatever they were up to. Are they feeling particularly nostalgic? Is this a message to me, as in you should check these out? Do they even live there? It is said that there’s a story in every photograph, so I sometimes wonder if the person who received the photo I took at a shopping mall, taken by what appears to be a man sitting on a sofa (from their perspective), could tell what was going on.

Or invent it?