Sleep of the weary

Why must I be unconscious while I sleep? I enjoy sleep, yet it feels like the forbidden fruit of mortal existence. Coveted, elusive, and fleeting, it slips through my fingers like sand, becoming all the more valuable the less of it I possess. A paradox where the more I long for it, the more fleeting it becomes. A cruel reminder that rest, our most essential reprieve, is merely a fragile offering, a mirage, dissolving away before any mortal hand could hope to grasp it. Yet still, sleep demands a complete surrender. The forgoing of ones own conciousness in a feeble attempt to find more focus for the trials of life's own endless progression. One must yield their life to its transient whim, submit to its control, and treat it with respect. Sleep will not come if rushed, and it flees if the mind is cluttered, but ends so abruptly, without recourse, if concluded on its own terms, and demands exactness if this timing is ever challenged. Sleep humbles us by reminding us that even in rest, we are sustained only by forces beyond our control. It's a debt we owe to the body, borrowed in short fragments, repaid in fleeting moments, and taxed of our limited existance. A debt with interest that will never be fully settled until that distant day comes, where, with sickle in hand, the reaper comes to collect, and man will wake no more.

So here I lay. Surrendering a portion of my limited time in this finite existance. Submitting to the pull of an unseen force. Praying for joy in these next few hours of paralyzed stillness, where the world carries on without me, as I slip unnoticed into the void of an imagined reality, only to rise again tomorrow, longing for more of the lost time surrendered here tonight.

Sweet Dreams.