I sleep far too much, enjoy the land of nod with a degree of glee not fitting for a reasonably healthy soul. The ability to curl up on my cot at any given moment, whether fatigued or not, and dissolve into luxurious repose is not popularly a matter for congratulation. But I feel no shame, no urge to refrain from the practice. My conscience, like my dreams, is remarkably clear of troubling factors, rather is soothingly quietening, embalming.
This new found ability to relax is disconcerting. For a person becomes used to being pressured to perform, be productive, vigorous, prolific. For why? Because that is the message we are constantly sold, that life is serious, requiring effort, attention, complicity. Not enough just to be, but vital to be something, anything, embroiled. With little time for anything but the doing, interacting with the grand design, that most irrational and impersonal of concepts
My snoozing is my manner of disassociating from such heady and unrealistic ideas, remaining singular as opposed to integrated.