Sleep: this is a gift to me. The irresistible call to oblivion, the rapturous romp to the dark recesses of the subconscious. Sleep beckons as a respite from the strivings and petty intrigues of the wide awake, a taste of that which is liberating, that which is uninhibited. Sleep is a gift, when the fevered pace of life crashes into crescendo, the somnolent embrace woos us to take respite.
Sleep is a gift to me, veteran of insomniac vigils, inhabitant of surreal mist of unlucidity in the half-sleep, half-awake terrains. When the quiet of the night and the disquiet of the soul grip you with inconsolable dread, sleep comes to hush the agitation, smoothen the wrinkled fabric of sanity, and restore the proper order of things.
Sleep comes as an escape, a respite. We succumb with an irresistible urge to its voluptuous allure. We swim in its inky fluidity, and we reach shores of untold beauty in the half-light of dawn and tomorrow.
Sleep is a gift to me, veteran of insomniac vigils, inhabitant of surreal mist of unlucidity in the half-sleep, half-awake terrains. When the quiet of the night and the disquiet of the soul grip you with inconsolable dread, sleep comes to hush the agitation, smoothen the wrinkled fabric of sanity, and restore the proper order of things.
Sleep comes as an escape, a respite. We succumb with an irresistible urge to its voluptuous allure. We swim in its inky fluidity, and we reach shores of untold beauty in the half-light of dawn and tomorrow.
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