As midnight descends and my dorm dims to whispers, my overactive neurons find solace from bedside books–nestled between the sheets and a stack of eclectic reads, here’s how the allure of knowledge brings sweet lure of slumber.
Excerpts (translated) from my scholarship personal story
nocturnal narratives | whispers from my nightstand shelf
I wouldn’t claim to be a polymath, but I’m quite fond of reading: mainly because solving problems at night gets my brain too wired to sleep. Hence, I always keep a couple of books at my bedside, flipping through a few pages before sleep beckons.
There’s an art to choosing the right book. Nothing too riveting—once I picked up a collection of Asimov’s novels from a secondhand bookstore. I thought The Gods Themselves was a series of short stories, planning to read a few each night, more or less, depending on my sleepiness. Turns out, it’s a novella, and quite a good one at that; I couldn’t help but finish it in one go, and by the time I looked up, it was almost dawn.
Nothing too dense either. I once chose Varian’s Modern Microeconomic Theory, far too abstract. I ended up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and remembering a problem I hadn’t solved, which made sleep even more elusive.
Content matters too. Chua Lam’s essays and miscellanies are perfect, but his gourmet reviews are strictly off-limits before bedtime—they’re just too deliciously written.
Lastly, I somewhat force myself to read books on philosophy and psychology. I’m not particularly fond of them, but my friends are, and they happily lend them to me. However, these books understand sleep the best, and I’ve come to appreciate them by association anyway.
Living in a dormitory isn’t as comfortable as home, but choosing a nightly companion from my books, much like shuffling a deck of cards, has its charm. I often remind myself not to play favorites, to share my attention equally, to be disciplined, and not to be overwhelmed between new fascinations and old flames—it’s time for sleep.