Pedro Ávila

I am constantly being nagged about not sleeping enough. My parents and grandparents are constantly hinting, sending me articles on the dangers of sleep deprivation and lecturing me on the short life-span of those who do not get a healthy 8 hours of sleep every night. I know. When I was a kid I was the last to fall asleep and the first to get up. In college it was quite the hangover that would keep me in bed past 9 on a Saturday. 10 on a Sunday.

My flatmates must have a suspicion that I actually don’t sleep. At all. Consistently, it happens that I’m writing when they go to bed and then writing again when they wake up. It’s especially bad since my brother gives siesta lessons to Spaniards as a hobby, and has been mistaken on several occasions for a hibernating animal. I’m not sure if it’s always the same kind of animal. Something furry though, I’m sure.

I don’t really know why I don’t sleep.

What little sleep I get is satisfying enough, I suppose. I don’t have regular nightmares or anything traumatizing.

Noise levels are acceptable where I live.

I guess the morning light is a bit much, but this is more about sleeping late than getting up early.

I guess I just fight it. Sleep is time wasted. You’re going to sleep your entire death away, may as well not waste time now. There are things to do, words to write, music and pictures to sort through and organize…whatever.

But mostly it’s the allure of the possibility of privacy, of solitude…utter, desperate solitude. Independence can be had within a community — but it must be actively sought out, and it should be noted that it’s no light matter. For the mind to explore the fantasy within there is no silence like the night, no muse like the dark. In it, dew forms on the blades of grass outside, and a billion others around the planet. In it, the clocks tick away a little slower, the toxins penetrate a little deeper. The thoughts race a little faster. Memories seep, in and out of my face and skin. Feelings are replaced with words and still, the dust never does stop falling.

In it, the house settles.

I like it.

Pedro Ávila Pedro Ávila

For a reasonably sane & productive member of society (arguable, but let’s not complicate things), I’m far too mobile and unrooted. I travel quite a bit for a job that is simultaneously my greatest privilege and my worst burden.

So I write. And I write. Travel pieces, political journalism (a stretch from ranting but, still), short stories, poetry and other such riff-raff. I contribute to a handful of publications and will probably just keep going until something gives out, or someone gives in.


The Site

"It's a fresh look, based on Google's material design. The design is responsive... see? It adjusts to your mobile or tablet device, so th...… Continue reading

Of smiles and roars