Burn The Midnight Oil (A Dramatic Monologue) Poem by ashok jadhav

(The stage is dim. A single desk lamp casts a pool of light. Papers, books, and sketches are scattered around. The speaker sits, hunched, pen in hand, eyes tired but focused.)
The night is quiet.
Too quiet, some would say.
But I find solace here—in the hush, in the shadows, in the moments the world forgets.
(Pause.)
I have burned the midnight oil.
Not once. Not twice.
A thousand nights, a thousand suns set behind my eyelids
while I wrestled with numbers, words, ideas…
every inch of thought pressed into existence.
They say, "Sleep, rest, pause."
I say, "Not yet."
Not until this idea breathes.
Not until this plan is alive.
Not until the work is worthy.
(He leans back, rubbing his eyes.)
Midnight is cruel.
It mocks ambition.
It whispers, Go to bed. Tomorrow will wait.
But tomorrow is a stranger.
Tomorrow does not wait for effort.
Tomorrow favors the prepared.
And tonight—I prepare.
(Pause.)
You see, burning the midnight oil is not mere toil.
It is devotion.
It is obsession.
It is love for what might be,
even when your body rebels
and your mind protests.
I have asked questions the stars could not answer.
I have chased thoughts that vanished at sunrise.
I have rewritten, recalculated, reimagined
until the page was a mirror
of my relentless insistence.
(He stands, voice rising.)
Do not mistake exhaustion for futility.
Do not mistake late nights for wasted hours.
Each moment of effort is a spark.
Each flicker feeds the flame.
Each candle burned
adds light to what will one day illuminate the world.
(Pause, softer.)
I have seen friends sleep, lives pass in routine, passions dimmed.
And I have remained, awake.
Alone with ink, alone with ideas, alone with the weight of possibilities.
Some call it madness.
Some call it sacrifice.
I call it survival.
Survival of the dream, survival of the goal, survival of the promise I made to myself.
(He picks up a paper, scans it carefully.)
It is quiet now, but in hours, this lamp will burn out.
The night will fade.
The world will awaken.
And what was once invisible—my work, my effort, my endless vigilance—
will stand in the light.
And perhaps someone will notice.
Perhaps no one will.
But it does not matter.
(Pause.)
Burning the midnight oil is not for praise.
It is not for applause.
It is not for recognition.
It is for mastery.
It is for creation.
It is for the relentless pursuit of what you know is worth every sleepless hour.
(He leans over the desk again, resolute.)
And so I burn.
I burn when others sleep.
I burn when the world dreams.
I burn when exhaustion begs for surrender.
Because the oil, the ink, the effort—they are my companions.
And until the work is done,
until the dream stands solid,
I will not relent.
I will not yield.
(He lifts his eyes, fierce.)
Some call it obsession.
I call it destiny.
For it is only in these long, quiet hours
that the impossible becomes possible.
(Pause.)
So let the night stretch on.
Let the lamp flicker.
Let the world sleep.
I will burn the midnight oil.
I will endure.
I will create.
I will conquer.
(Lights slowly fade, leaving only the lamp's dim glow.)