I’ve been interested i circadian rhythms for most of my life. When I first heard about these in sixth grade, I thought that this meant that the whole world was a mess. The idea that our natural clocks are different from the way the sun spins us around just seemed unnatural or something. At the same time, I had an inkling that there was some kind of hope in all of this. We seem to be powerless over the measures of time, in the world, and in our own bodies, and these forces are not as far from our reach as we think. I’ve always felt like I was peculiarly maladjusted for city life, and this, for some reason, meant that I should be in a city, or at least close.
The possibilities are there for enjoying the rhythm of a city like New York, with five-star hotels that offer comforts and hospitalities that cater to a comfortable rhythm. It seems like a way of beating nature, almost, and it also can seem like it’s a way of reinventing ourselves. New York certainly is a place where one can go, leaving the life before spectacularly behind, and find out what we are like if we pretend to be something else. For some, this kind of fluctuation in identity is unnerving, and for others, it’s a means to liberation, a kind of Buddhist negation of self that recreates something out of the fires of our experience.
The rhythms of Manhattan are particularly complex, based in the complex of human desires that number in the millions. This creates a general sense that things are in complete chaos, and yet they seem to be working on their own accord in spite of ourselves. There are few days here that really feel like 24 hours, and most of them go much faster. This, for me, is really good news. It means that I might have a chance to reset my own circadian clock. It’s a means of short-circuiting all the senses, so that, at the end of the day, we get to rest alone with the person that we are becoming.
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