I’ve always bragged about being a great sleeper, wait no, not that kind of sleeper. I mean actual, head-hits-the-pillow sleep. Put me near a bed, and it’s game over: lay down, close my eyes, maybe turn over once, done. See you whenever the alarm goes off. Sure, age brought a few changes, like the occasional midnight bathroom trip, but I’d always drift back to sleep without a second thought. Then, a few months ago, something shifted. Now, without fail, I wake up at exactly 4:00 a.m. every. single. day.

Take a sleeping pill, people say. Sounds simple, like flicking a switch. But here I am, staring at the clock, 4:15 on a Sunday morning. No work today, so there’s no rush, and, strangely, this is when my brain seems to come alive. At this hour, my imagination runs wild, untethered, like a golden retriever finally let off its leash. There’s something almost magical about the way ideas flood my mind when the world is dark and still.

And yet, my brain feels heavy, as if it’s stumbling between exhaustion and inspiration. What’s the difference, anyway, between the mind and the brain? I once heard an analogy: the brain is the hardware, and the mind, the software. It made sense at the time, but now I wonder, who’s the programmer? Is it me, or something deeper, beyond my understanding? Questions like this tend to pile up at 4:00 a.m.

On weekdays, though, the magic fades. The curse sharpens its teeth, turning inspiration into anxiety. My mental software glitches, overwhelmed by a storm of questions: Only three hours left to sleep. What if I can’t get out of bed? What if I’m too exhausted to function at work? What if everyone notices the bags under my eyes? Then, the snowballing begins: Is it snowing? What if there’s too much snow on the car? Should I go check?

Breathe, I remind myself. Just breathe. Inhale… exhale. They call it mindfulness, don’t they? I’ve always been calm, people comment on it all the time but this calmness doesn’t help me drift back to sleep. Maybe it’s not calmness at all but a quiet kind of unrest I’ve trained myself to ignore. I’d heard whispers about cannabis gummies, the kind with only the calming ingredient, they say it quiets the mind without the high. I gave it a try for a few days, as they suggested, but nothing changed. The calm I was chasing always seemed just out of reach, slipping through my fingers like smoke.

I consider grabbing my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media. But I know better. That cold blue light will only wake me further, and besides, doom-scrolling rarely soothes the nerves. I remind myself sleep is essential. The brain needs rest to recharge, to function. But the brain doesn’t listen. It’s addicted to 4:00 a.m.

So here I am again, writing in the stillness of this ungodly hour. Oddly enough, my most creative moments live here. My first two scripts were born in this twilight between night and day, as were most of my short stories. Is this hour a curse, or is it a gift? Maybe it’s both. Creativity often feels like that—an intricate dance of light and shadow, equal parts blessing and burden.

I wonder, as I write, what’s happening on the other side of the world. Somewhere in Japan or Jeju Island, it’s 4:00 p.m. Tea is being poured, conversations flow, and life unfolds effortlessly, unaware of the curse haunting me on this side of the clock.

If you’re still reading, bear with me, maybe we can figure this out together. Have you tried something that works? A secret trick, perhaps, to escape the 4:00 a.m. trap? Or maybe you’ve embraced it, like I’m trying to. If you’ve found an answer, I’m all ears. And if I discover one first, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.

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