Monday, 15 July 2013

Sleep, recline, Sleep, recline, Sleep, recline, Sleep.

2am... The very worst thing about arriving at one’s strongest convictions at this late hour, is that the conscious will to act is still very much tormented by the rather less salient, and rather more ill-conditioned conclusion: “I will do it tomorrow!”
This predictable conflict represents itself precisely by the individual not knowing what hour he will wake in the morning: The alarm is not set, and even if it is, it simply does not mean anything. The mind is at rest, and it will not be motivated toward any other cause than switching off again, the moment it is roused come the morning, or afternoon if we are to be more realistic.
    It is a picture of slumber, of decadence; a gentleman reclining on a sofa. And in this regard, man’s last remaining will, in the enforced absence, or denial, of all others, rather than to fall into a permanent sleep, must surely be to do nothing.
    To somehow routinize this habit of unpredictable sleep, and boring awakening, and apply some sort of convention to it, would surely become man’s greatest intellectual determination.
    Only, I would like not to limit myself to such conventional wisdom, and would rather leave the question unanswered: Why do nothing all day when you can fall asleep, why fall asleep when you can do nothing all day? You see… there would be absolutely no meaning to be derived from such an absurd existence, and yet still schools would be established, at least in the minds of a world reclined, yet somehow not resigned to this fate, by virtue of continuously debating this question with themselves.


But without wishing to get distracted again, the picture you see of a man reclining; that man thinks, and thinks, and in all these continual thoughts, choices, careers, and paths of action are eliminated, either by the workings of circumstance, or through his own ill-will, and lack of feeling.
    A grand idea is thrown in through the window one evening which he catches and clutches to his heart. But his spasmodic reaction upon waking to this world is to toss it back again, at the moment the alarm rings, or at the hour he naturally wakes; it does not mean anything. All he is left with is the feeling of nothing; a heavy, compressed weight on his chest; the imagination that something was once there.
    As the hours pass, and thus the less his slumber is prodded and poked at, the more enthusiastically he treats the idea of rousing himself, and chasing after some obscure and distant ambition. In short, the less the world presents itself to him, the more hopeful he becomes.

But now the hour is late and I have just caught hold of another grand idea. I’m tired enough to know that I won’t, and yet, I will, do it tomorrow

Yours,
SiBot

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