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

(The stage is dim. A single desk lamp glows against the darkness. Papers, books, and unfinished work are scattered everywhere. Outside, the world sleeps. The speaker sits alone, eyes heavy but burning with purpose.)
Midnight again.
The hour when clocks whisper
and the world forgets its promises.
This is the time they never talk about—
the hour between hope and exhaustion,
between surrender and resolve.
(He rubs his eyes, then straightens.)
They think success arrives at sunrise.
They praise the result, the applause, the finish line.
But they never see this—
this lonely war with fatigue,
this quiet battlefield of ink and effort.
I have burned the midnight oil.
Not once.
Not occasionally.
But night after night,
while dreams slept safely in other minds,
I stayed awake—
keeping mine alive.
(Pause.)
Listen to the silence.
It presses against the chest, doesn't it?
In the daylight, noise distracts ambition.
But at night, there is nowhere to hide.
Every doubt speaks clearly.
Every weakness demands attention.
"Stop, " the body begs.
"Enough, " the mind pleads.
But the heart—
the stubborn heart—
refuses.
(He picks up a paper.)
This page did not come easily.
It cost me sleep.
It cost me comfort.
It cost me moments I will never reclaim.
While others rested,
I wrestled with ideas,
rewrote failures,
argued with myself
until clarity finally blinked awake.
They say working late is unhealthy.
They say ambition steals life.
But tell me—
what is life without pursuit?
What is rest without purpose?
What is sleep if your conscience remains awake?
(His voice rises.)
I did not burn the midnight oil because I was forced.
I burned it because I chose to.
Because dreams do not survive on intention alone.
They survive on sacrifice.
On discipline.
On the courage to stay when leaving is easier.
Night after night,
the lamp flickered like my confidence.
Some evenings, hope felt thin as smoke.
Some nights, the weight of failure sat beside me,
patient, mocking.
But still—
I stayed.
(Softly.)
There were moments I nearly quit.
Moments when the darkness felt endless,
when the work stared back blank and cruel.
Moments when success seemed like a myth
invented to torment the persistent.
But then—
a sentence aligned.
A solution emerged.
A spark appeared.
And suddenly, the night made sense.
(He stands.)
Burning the midnight oil is not madness.
It is faith without witnesses.
It is effort without guarantee.
It is believing that unseen work
still shapes tomorrow.
The world will never thank these hours.
No one applauds the sleepless.
No medals are given for tired eyes
or trembling hands.
But every achievement
carries the shadow of these nights within it.
(Pause. He breathes deeply.)
I have learned something here—
in this quiet, relentless darkness.
That success is not born in comfort.
That discipline is louder than motivation.
That resilience is built when no one is watching.
And when morning finally comes—
when the sun pretends this struggle never happened—
I will rise with it,
knowing I earned the light
by surviving the dark.
(He turns off the lamp, but speaks into the darkness.)
Let others sleep.
Let others wait for inspiration.
I will stay.
I will endure.
I will burn.
Because dreams demand fuel.
And tonight—
I am willing to provide it.
(Blackout.)