White Nights

Every night I wake up at five a.m. sharp. Sometimes startled by a dream ; others drowsily, a part of me struggling to sleep on while the rest is intent on denying me this escape. Occasionally I doze back and get a full night’s rest. More often, I toss and turn for one or two hours, get up, pee, look at my Parisian apartment by the light of the street lamps, finally fall into a deep slumber. I awake by mid-morning, tired and already late. I’ve heard every explanation under the sun, attended to the position of my bed, avoided television, drank soothing infusions, took or not a warm shower before lying down. All along I’ve known it is a case of permanent jetlag, an inner refusal to remain in this borrowed place, a constant call from the city that never sleeps.