Sleep. There have been so many euphemisms for it,some are whimsical illustrations of leaping sheep, others assert woeful images of fractioned death. I, probably as well as anyone else, am rather ambivalent to the matter. There are times when I see it as the glorious indulgence of a moment’s rest. At other points it appears as the the sweeping fog that postures like death, reaping time, stealing all the opportunities that could be. And then there are the saddening times when I am simply grateful for the absence of consciousness, a time when I can abandon thoughts and worries. I am an insomniac at heart. Once it was a major lament, now it has become a favorite trait of mine. I love the night eternal, nocturnal. Seeing the clutter of the day simply fade aware. I was asked once, ‘Why do you stay up? What do you do?’, which I answered, without hesitation by painting a favorite scene. At four in on particular morning I was sitting on my porch looking around the then barren streets of modern-day suburbia. And it was peaceful. It was a time before kids would be rushed off to school, before distant fathers mutter about the day oncoming tribulations, before the detached mothers demand a moment’s serenity, before all the shit. I listened, then, to the peaceful him of every naturalistic aspect ignored, the inaudible creaking of trees forcefully implanted. I see the rekindling of my appreciation for life, objectively correlated upon the morning sky. No longer is it an etherized patient, now it is a lively and impassioned body of colors. In this skyscape, pink and yellow hues flash across the sky, heat lightning. Lightning dancing across the sky without the footsteps of thunder. The air stands, breezing but silent. So there I sat, watching everything and feeling a peace within myself and my surroundings. A harmony of setting I have rarely enjoyed. That is why I hate sleep… There’s so much beauty that is lost outside closed eyes.
Category Archives: Stream of Consciousness
This piece started and still, for the most part is, a stream of consciousness starting with the idea of a mental block. A little hint of my internal monologue.
A mind can be, or is, a machine-esque operation, a fluid and productive movement of its parts. Yet, at times, this matter of production, can falter. Between its gears and cogs, are the tid-bits of personal minutia that detract from perfect productivity. While one might care to fancy that we are the ‘machine’, the process and epitomal output, one cannot forget that they are, forevermore, the detritus as well. That emotional or fanciful clutter is the hallmark of who a person is. And it is not enough to understand that we are separated by our individualities, there must be a reaction. There must be some change in mental operation to prove that existence of any mental activity. This could range from emotions throwing off a person’s everyday tasks to the mulling over of a concept that eventually results in a decision. As an example, this is the difference between acknowledging a preference and being affected by it. One can have a strong inclination towards peppermint stick ice cream, but until that preference actually has an effect it stands as a purposeless fact. it is a matter, in essence, of the sign-signified relationships of the brain. The sign being the acknowledged preference and the signified being the live manifestation within actions. This action may be the simple choice of peppermint stick over vanilla. In total, while the seemingly unrelated minutia can hold up grander productivity, it is exactly that difficulty that puts a person behind a product.