When you can’t sleep, write. When you can’t write, sleep.
It’s not an easy thing to be told what to do. Never is the suggestion accepted and life moves on. Rather usually a fuss must be made and a muck-abouted.
What’s all the fuss about anyway? You know deep down that it’ll be good for you. A rejuvenation not only for the soul, but the spirit! And all those damned biological functions that requrie replenishment. For if only I could wake forever and learn to wrangle the little concentration I’ve been blessed with.
To live in the moment is to breath in every second. A way to entertain every passing breeze with a new sense of wonder. And when the ice-cooler from two doors down goes off just after on in the morning, it’s but a bitter frost.
No amount of tomfoolery in the sheets could rest the mind when captured by a constant whirl. Why is it when you’re running late for the meeting in your dreams are you bombarded by the ideas of the day.
Oh but to dream. To fall, to stumble into a world that brings joy and wonder. Where life can be but a glimmer through the rose tinting of the mind.
Oh but to dream in a simpler time; ignorance is bliss after all. As there is a time to pass, there is a time to learn. It’s not a race, for some a dream’s always a dream and the journey never ventured.