Sleep. I can't get enough of it. Back in the day, I once slept for a week, straight — waking up only to eat and go to the bathroom. It was heavenly. These days, I don't even get eight hours a day during the week, catching up on the weekends: from four to six hours Monday through Friday, and then I sleep from twelve to sixteen hours on Saturday and Sunday. If I had my way, I would sleep about ten hours a day, I think. Sleep. It is like going back into the womb every night, when you need do nothing at all. And of course, what dreams may come. I think it is not like death — not like death at all — we do not enter sleep with the thought of forever in our heart. Sleep is merely a dip in the wheel that goes round, when we slip into an ether outside the world, inside ourselves — but to wake. The wheel rolls on, and we return from the far land. It is only a makeshift shelter, propped up for a little at night, torn down each dawn and put out of sight.
Kyle
10:10pm saturday, 30th november
I fear sleep, though I love it. I love sleeping, but I hate it because when I wake up I find myself tired and groggy. The previous night brought nightmares and anxiety for the new day. That, of course is when I can get to sleep in the first place.
nightwolf87@cox.net
me?!
11:28am saturday, 8th february
i also fear the dark... This poem is, as most of your writing, beautiful. i found your site again, and boy am i glad. your adresse is now burnt inside my head, never to be forgotten. this site has become something to me... dont quite know what.. So long until i read again. and by God it will not be so long..
Kyle
me?!