Amir Saleem

He only had two problems.

He wasn’t insomniac, but he never appreciated the fact that one third of his life was being spent while asleep, so he stopped wasting his time on it. He didn’t sleep for five consecutive nights, not even a drowsy wink. This problem, at least for the time being, was solved.

His mind wasn’t barren, but there were times when he would run out of ideas. He was a writer; he couldn’t afford to live without ideas. The most unbearable pain he’d ever had was the agony of a conscious yet idealess brain.

The only thought that breezed through his head during all this arid period in his life was that of a bright summer night. Ever since he had stopped falling asleep, he noticed that summer nights were not dark; there was always some form and amount of light in the sky left by that mercilessly burning sun. But what could he possibly write on it? He had no idea.

And then an idea struck. If he couldn’t write anything on it, never mind. He rattled thorough his old journals, stole one of his abandoned ideas and went out in the middle of the night. He was going to write his next novel in the bright light of summer nights.