Sleep

Sleep. Is it something that I should be pursuing? Doctors and parents and teachers all tell me it's important; that I need a certain amount of it in order to live to the fullest. To be honest, every time I sink into the embrace of the soft warm sheets and let my mind wander among the stars as time either stands still or accelerates, I can understand the sentiment. My eyelids droop, I can feel my breaths grow deeper and slower. In, out. In, out. In, out...

But wait! One of those idle thoughts has blossomed into something amazing. I snap back to the waking world, feeling the cold shock of sudden adrenaline. My eyes dart wildly around in the dark, as if the idea is in the room with me. I can see it now. It's beautiful, and exciting, and inspiring... I may well be on the cusp of telling the greatest story the world has ever heard! Sleep can wait. I need to get this thing down in writing before it wisps away into the whispering void of the night. Quickly, quietly, I take pen to paper, painting a landscape of words scribbled in the night. It's done. The seeds of story have been planted. And... now that it's clear in my mind, the idea has lost its luster. "The Living Sock Saves the Universe" seemed like such a great idea to my half-asleep self. Did I truly believe this was to be my great contribution to world history? I realize that everyone was right, and I should be sleeping. Sleep is important. I can see that now. Back to the pillow, back to the sheets, back to slow, rhythmic breathing. In, out...

Oh dear. As my half-asleep mind wanders once again, it comes up with a way to fix my story. What am I to do? Throw aside the sheets once again, that's what. I slip out of bed, flood the room with the glow of my laptop's screen, find the file, and drag it into the trash bin. I smile, satisfied in the knowledge that I've saved the world from reading my story, and myself from writing it. Now, having accomplished something by accomplishing nothing, I return to bed. This time, sleep will take me. But it is not to be. For some unknown reason that I cannot and will never be able to explain, I am suddenly compelled to clean the house. The next hour is spent dusting and sweeping and tidying, until the entire house is spotless and my desire for sleep is nothing but a faint murmuring complaint in the back of my head. I make myself a coffee and sit down on the couch to watch something, casually glancing at the clock on my living room wall.

4:57 am.

My eyes grow wide, but it is too late. A sip of coffee has already made its way down my throat. In a few short hours, normal people will wake to greet the new day, rested and happy. I have class in three hours, and work after that. Tiredness suddenly washes over me like a wave, but the caffeine refuses to let it take me. I contemplate crying, but I must be strong.

I need to sleep, but I cannot.



Copyright © Chris Bosman.