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8:26 a.m. - Thursday, Jul. 17, 2003
My Darling Morpheus
Chronic sleep deprivation leads me to a tendency to think, to fantasize, to remember, to write about sleep as normal people do about love-making. Last night I went to bed early and slept well. I want to linger over the memory and savor every detail, as one who had spent the night in the arms of a lover more substantial than Morpheus.
I need more sleep than the average person, and I get less.
How often have I lain down in my bed on a Saturday afternoon, in a quiet house, and said, "This is heaven on earth." Having spent the morning on my weekend chores, stupid with tiredness, forcing myself to stand, to walk, to move, because if I stop and sit the sleepiness will overwhelm me, I feel enormous pleasure in giving up the struggle, in having the privilege of giving it up safely, in having the luxury of lying down and giving myself over, in letting go; but my surrender is a victory, for how richly does Morpheus reward me! What physical pleasure and what mental delights he gives me!
I want to linger over the memory of the cool night air drawn into my bedroom by the window fan, the hum of the fan, the dogs sleeping around me, the faint sound of their breathing, the coolness of the sheets, and my awareness of approaching that border where consciousness gives way to freedom � that indefinable border, which I see only as I draw near to it, for as I cross it, it becomes invisible, or I become blind � no, surely not blind, for I begin to see things I could never see on this side! Rather, in crossing the border I get back my eyes, my voice, my legs; in short, my life. The blindfold is lifted, the gag untied; the chains are broken.
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