Found this in the vault of unpublished posts, a snippet from about 6 months ago;

'Regrettably, I've spent the larger part of the this semester just gone cultivating a highly unadaptive sleeping pattern. Despite any effort at normality, I am simply unable to sleep anytime before 2am, with an average bedtime of about 3. This results in either a very uncomfortable and draining following day, or if circumstances allow, a comatose ten-hour sleep that ends around lunchtime, ruining any chance of a decent bedtime the next night.

'This was made possible with lectures concentrated later in the day, late shifts, late nights in general.

'Last week, I attempted phase-shift sleep deprevation. I stayed awake for about thirty hours and fell soundly asleep at ten-thirty. Unfortunately, I overslept well into the afternoon, rendering the whole exercise useless.'

I finally ventured into selling the overhwelming amount of thrifted clothing I've accumulated, with a little market stall shared with the brilliant Kayla. I am prone to emotionally attaching myself to garments, so a reminder of the mere material nature of was helpful. They're just dresses; pretty dresses in which I experienced wonderful things, but not for the dresses themselves.

I was recently introduced to a philosophical categorisation of people (gestured out on our cafe table). On the edges reside the collectors, those who fill their life with stuff - which may very well leave them fulfilled, but only if so inclined. Further in a concentric ring are the do-ers, who find meaning in a perpetual string of action and achievement. Those who travel/study/work/play, whom I understand clearly but surpass in my existential hunger. In the centre are those who just be - who need not things or motion to feel complete, but who are content in themselves and their mere presence. I was told I'm hovering between doing and being. I do crave a contentment that is contigent only upon my existence.

The money I made is instrumental for the next chapter in my life, full-time dance tuition, which has the price-tag to confirm it's bourgois impression. And the dancing, not inherently fulfilling (but were I a do-er), instead a means to the satisfaction of my soul (whatever molecular structure it comprises, in this post-dualist frame of mind).

Naturally, my light-hearted post has taken a heavy and introspective turn. It is, after all, four am, in the midst of the self-reflection danger-zone. Like a harmonic function, free-flow writing peaks at sunny mornings over coffee and a notebook, and troughs in the dark of sleepless nights (not in quality but in gradient, the weighty matters emerging in the small hours). Quite evidently - the little market stall has become an avenue for fundamental existential consideration.