The Luxury of Two in the Morning

Two in the morning.

There are not many people awake at this hour.

People working the night shift, students continuing their exam studies, writers chasing deadlines, or someone burdened with reasons they cannot sleep. Most of the world is in a deep slumber, and both the streets and the people have finished their daily duties and fallen silent.

When I was young, I almost never woke up at this time. Even if I did wake up, it was normal for me to crawl back under the covers, thinking, "I can still sleep," and drift off until morning.

However, once you enter your sixties, your body is honest.

I suddenly wake up.

I look at the clock and it is two in the morning.

In the past, I would have felt like I had lost something. But now, it is different.

"Ah, I have been given this time today."

I have come to think this way.

I have never been good at going back to sleep.

Once I wake up, some part of my brain starts working. Rather than trying to force myself to sleep, it is better to just get up.

I drink a glass of cold water in the kitchen.

The room is dark.

I do not turn on all the lights.

A small desk lamp is enough.

My beloved Shetland Sheepdog approaches with a sleepy face, looking at me as if to ask, "What's wrong?"

When I gently pat its head, it returns to its bed, looking reassured.

Every time I see that, I think that family is connected not by words, but by presence.

From there, it becomes my own time.

Some days I write.

Some days I open a book.

One hundred sit-ups.

Push-ups.

Squats.

When I move my body, my mind clears up in a strange way.

When it hits four o'clock, I go out for a walk.

Those two hours have become the most luxurious time of my day.

When I was a child, this time was terrifying.

"Ghosts appear at the hour of the ox."

I truly believed stories like that.

Just looking at the darkness of the hallway made my legs freeze, and I needed courage even to go to the bathroom.

When I became a student preparing for exams, this time was a battle against sleepiness.

Laughter flowing from late-night radio.

By the time "All Night Nippon" ended, the letters in my reference books were blurring.

When I became a working adult, I was at the office at this time.

I would miss the last train, fall asleep in the back seat of a late-night taxi, and it would be past three in the morning by the time I reached home.

Back then, I was chased by time.

Now it is different.

Time welcomes me.

There are no pedestrians.

I can barely hear the sound of cars.

Only the sound of the refrigerator motor echoes quietly in the house.

I wonder if there is any other world with so little "sound."

Silence is not the absence of sound.

It is that only the necessary sounds remain.

What is strange is that at this time, even the distracting thoughts in my head become quiet.

During the day, various pieces of information—work, money, relationships, news, social media, public perception—constantly pass through my head.

But at two in the morning, they disappear.

There is no one to compare myself to.

There is no one to compete with.

I am wrapped in the illusion that I am the only person in the world.

That is why my thinking becomes deeper.

There is a phrase in the Heart Sutra called "Form is emptiness."

When I was young, I thought it was a difficult religious concept.

However, after passing sixty and spending time like this, I feel like I have begun to understand its meaning a little.

Things with form are not eternal.

Even the things I am attached to look surprisingly small in the silence of the night.

Events that made me so angry during the day, I can now think, "Well, that's fine."

People sit in Zen meditation at temples, trying to become "nothing."

However, the time of two in the morning naturally brings me closer to "nothing" without any effort.

Darkness.

Silence.

A world with no one else.

In that, I can only hear my own breathing.

That is enough.

Recently, this time has also become a time to think about death.

It is by no means a dark meaning.

People will surely end one day.

That is why today is more precious than I think.

When I look up at the sky before dawn, I can accept that fact honestly.

It is strangely not scary.

Rather, it is peaceful.

Eventually, the eastern sky turns a little blue.

A bird begins to sing.

A newspaper delivery motorcycle runs in the distance.

The world wakes up little by little.

I tie my shoelaces and leave the house.

The air at four o'clock is cold and clear to the depths of my lungs.

Every time I take a step, the realization that "I am alive today" wells up.

Two in the morning is likely a time for sleep for many people.

But for me, it is a time to reclaim myself, and it is the quietest and richest time of the day.

Two hours where I can exist just as myself, without being disturbed by anyone and without trying to become anything.

I want to continue to cherish this small luxury that I have obtained precisely because I have aged.

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