Tuesday, November 16, 2010

On Sleeping

What a mystery—to slip in and out of consciousness, as into some warm, narcotic robe. One lays on the bed, thinking this and that: that absurd laugh, those silly little phrases, this bright and lustrous dream. And somewhere along it all dissolves into little drops of light: a lunch pail on the table, a picture of your mother, pretty leaves on trees, in books, on the ground, in the garden. It all dissolves till one is but the solvent itself, overtaken and mute, sinking down, down to the bottom of some deep sea. 
*
*
*
*   
One rises and raises the blinds—the blinds of one’s eyes, the blinds of the windows. And everything is sunny and strange. Dust floats in the sunny bath, here and there as the thoughts begin to drift again. How queer! One could have sworn he had risen from the grave, for that is how it would feel. But all's just a clever trick—one's organs are ticking still. And the dream is recreated like a phoenix from the ash.

1 comment:

  1. This is so satisfying to read! Thank you for posting.

    - Melissa

    ReplyDelete

SWEET!