I grow more weary with each passing day, waking every morning from a dream more vibrant than my waking existence, where I can still walk and talk. Upon waking, I discover once again that my real world remains harsh and diabolical, relentless in its passion for my destruction. I lock down my body and seizure myself until all my muscles scream, releasing an instant before they take control, relaxing in the basket of fatigue, soon asleep once more. Part of me finds slumber to be my way out. The less I am awake, the less time crawls along, chiding me, teasing, dangling sleep before me only to snatch it away. When I'm finally through with sleeping, I look forward to its embrace once more. If dying is slumber I'm all for it. You have been bludgeoned by my imagination. I apologize for the awful over use of the word 'wake', however I stand by all confusion and apprehension created when attempting to separate fact from fiction. Which is entree and which is seasoning? Only good snippets contain parts of both.
Tracy, I remember how it felt, when sleep was the only time I felt like "me". I, too, thought that, if dying was like sleep, then no problemo! However, given my personality and karma, it's plain that I'd not get to sleep - it'll be the wheel again for me, over and over, since I'm not enlightened. :)
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