1:21 a.m.

Rare is the day when I go to bed before midnight. Sleeping early has never been my thing. I like the night; especially the deep hours into the night. Everything is sharp and crisp. The events of the previous day become clearer. And I am able to make decisions without the noise of everything and everyone else interfering.

Do you talk to yourself? I do, at night. Constantly. Sometimes things have to be said out loud, even if I am the only one hearing it.

Last year I had to make a decision about whether to continue seeing this guy. He was completely wrong for me. I knew it from the moment he kissed me. Holding his hand was a monumental chore. He was taller than me, so he would hoist my hand up to about mid-torso, his elbow bended. As if I were some child, being gently dragged along, my arm raised at an uncomfortable level. Who the hell holds hands like that. Tell me.

But I had been alone for a while and I thought that I had to tolerate his wrongness. You know, give it a try. Maybe I was wrong, I thought, and eventually would learn to properly trail alongside him in the streets of São Paulo.

I talked to myself about all of the above one night. It was around 3 a.m. when I realised that, fuck it, he is wrong. That I wanted someone who was a better fit. That being alone, talking to myself, was superior to being with the wrong person. I have always known that, yet let this awareness get lost. Why let that go? Just so you can be held at night? Hell, no. Wait for the better fit.

In the meantime, there's always television. And the night.