I'm beginning to believe that the real sleep is the droll of awakeness, the passive acceptance of all the things that permeate the daily hours, as if they belonged there. On the metro downtown, every once accepts their fate of boredom without any resistance. Some are staring at a boring book or the daily diary of lies, any newspaper. Some are just blankly staring ahead, drooping their eyes in defeat, before their actions have attached themselves to any verb, or intent.
This is sonambulism.
This is a deeper thing.
A fundamental lack of awakeness.
On the same subway car, and wondering who had less sleep than I, all these things leave me thankful. My sleep allows me to travel, and my awake hours, however sleep-drunk, are somehow motivated. Insticts to resist and embrace, verbs that let me kiss and fight. Run and hold.
Suddently thankful, I vow to stop complaining, but I know it won't last long...