And here I am thinking that I, too, would be welcome among the other 2am dwellers. That I, too, would be privy to the rejuvenating reservoir frequented by poets, lovers, and thinkers in this twilight hour.
‘Twas so absurd to believe that I’d reap the same reward of those risen, sodden, out of the deep river valley when I’d just arrived at its mountaintop spring.
And now that I am here…
I must say, the appeal of taking such measures is beyond me. No, the altitude does nothing to revitalize my maladjusted lungs, and the darkness renders me unable to determine a hawk from a handsaw. I can’t see anything.
Inspiration is a fickle friend (or foe), you see, and rituals such as these make an amusing mockery of her elusive spirit. And while I’ve rarely been graced with her presence, I know her well enough to at least know that, in her eyes, anything less than serendipity is satire. Surely she’d side with me in saying that abstinence will in no way entitle you to her blessing. In fact, perhaps your strict adherence to such hackneyed superstition would offend her so greatly that she’d consider eternal abstinence from granting you favor.
And if so, suffice to say, you’d never hear the first breath of objection from me.
So who, then, is really worse off? Those who continually try and fail or those burdened with false confidence? The answer, I now know, is irrelevant. The same fate, for better or worse, awaits us all.