It’s 1:01 am, and I’m awake. I’m almost always awake at this hour, even though my daughter will almost certainly storm into our room tomorrow at 7 am, and I’ll be forced to rise, rinse my face, walk the dog and make lunch.
I’m awake because, while I love the act of sleeping, I hate the idea of sleeping. It just feels like a waste to me; like taking the rare, precious moments we have in life and throwing a bunch of them away. I once heard Charles Barkley remark that “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” and, while death isn;t sleep, the idea is righteous.
This isn’t just early-morning babble; it’s how I genuinely feel. I fear sleep, in that I’d rather be awake and alive and feeling and scratching and tasting and moving. Do I get lots of work done at this hour? Truth be told, no. I scan the web, listen to music, pull garbage from the refrigerator, check Facebook 50 times, Tweet, blog. It’s anything but constructive, and—in all probability—I’ll probably need a nap by, oh, 2 pm tomorrow.
Which, of course, is sleeping.
Alas, I’m stuck. I’m awake. Profoundly awake. Bouncing off the walls, seeking out …