SLEEP is as precious as it can be alluding.

To surrender to its insistence can be a most fulfilling transition. To fight its intrusion can be as maddening as its relentlessness. To find it at our beckoned call is a thankful proposition.

But to seek it when it is elusive, makes it seem a betrayal of its gift. That it only bestows it's grandeur within its terms, never on your own. And in doing so, reminds us that we are not as masterful of ourselves as we might hope.

The surrender to the resting of our consciousness is as fraught with deception as our own expectations of it. For the very thing that we wish to rest from is all that is necessary to keep it at bay. The escape we seek is reluctant to be party to your tactic, and uses that very desire to tear away at the attainment of the goal.

So you try to turn off the incessant meandering of your consciousness. To focus on images that beckon the restful solitude of sleep. Even that is a betrayal. Out of the darkness we seek to plunge into, passes the lightning flashes of the day to day. Like a complex weave of images. Each one causing a momentary relationship to another, as the trail bounces to and fro spanning a disjointed colleague of thoughts, memories, fears, and hopes. All the while, turning it's back on the hopeful candidate wishing for sleep.

Time is on Sleeps side, never on ours.

If only children could grasp the blessing of youth that affords such an abundance of a commodity that they will only long for in time to come, with equal passion as the fight it now.

The longer it alludes, the greater the panic. Panic that if it doesn't come soon, what little, if any, is attained will not be enough. And seldom is it enough as we would like, or hope for. But in extreme shortages, we will find the dark side of ourselves.

Simple functions are trials. Simple feats of logic pale to the result the strain of sleeplessness places on our systems. Memory, recollection becomes a foggy prosecution of difficult efforts to sort through the mist for the completely misplaced bit of information. Something as simple as your name. The imbalance created by our sleeplessness make us feel as though we are asleep. If only we could have been.

Our unconscious can be as cruel as our conscious. As we slip into the land of dreams, the playland of the unconscious, it seems to randomly play out our deepest fears, our greatest hopes, our fondest desires. It does all this with no considerations to the reality of our conscious or our conscience. The moral outrage we experience as we see our basic values shattered by the self propelled creations of our id, is tempered by the deep seated fear that what was played out was not at all a contradiction. It was really something hidden. 

 

If that's so, we hide most symbols that oppress humanity, compassion, benevolence. Tragedies of all sorts make up these movies of the mind, movies of the night, of sleep. Some are played out onto others at our hand, some are played out by other hands onto our personal icons, others are played by other hands onto ourselves. Often randomly shifting between all of these. It's defiance of logic is it's only salvation. As we recognize it's flagrant  confusion, we can back it into the dark corners of our minds from where it came to with our-shield of reality, that we brandish as our badge of strength over the demons.

Those demons of the mind might simply be the pre-trial of things to come. To prepare us for some similar incident of equally horrific consequences. Or it just might be a reminder that there are parts of our soul that are best left to the safety of sleep, where little harm can be directly inflicted. But the indirect dishevelment is another matter, altogether.

Where else might we find an area so ripe with implications. Implications that we are as deeply horrific as these dreams. Maybe they're not frightening at all, but simply meant to let us see another side of ourselves that we are reluctant to let out.

Maybe you don't know how to let it out.

Maybe we shouldn't.

The restful side of the nocturnal plays as fanciful as they are gratifying. But you have no choice. What is played out is as random a chance as is our attainment of happiness. We have to find it in what we have. If we look for it, we will never see what our present is to happiness. What exists there will be missed. And the penalty for this oversight is paid for in all the nightmares we recall. Even the ones that darken the morning and we don't know what or why. It's just darkness on our soul.

Dream of the happiness we find, and not what we hope for. In everything there is happiness. We may not see it for the villain of id.