Rapidly Moving Sockets
My fascination with a good sleep began when I started toying with my sleep patterns - A few experiments were in place which included a stint with late-night grocery stocking, several all-night music disc-jockeys displays and countless hours awake in utter disturbance, meditative calm and devastatingly painful sorrow. As the time passed into dusk, at the point the Moon began to crust over it's wallowing eyes and rejoin the dance across the sky, and hours after the Sun shut it's radiative blinders from the mirrors of our rear views, I would enter a semi-conscious state. Now for clarification purposes, these times were only in absence of hydrogenated aldehydes (or alcohol in better framed references), as altered states of madness cannot occur at the same time. But during these times of sleep and alcoholic deprivation, I would become more aware of innate objects, more discern for things that were previously indiscernible. Real was no longer real, and the unreal became mundane and bland.
On very few occasions I've had the chance to experience the quagmire of dream states - the mid-sleep illusionary conscious walk - the walk that defines the zombies thirst for brains - the walk that feels no walls, sees no light and hears no pain - the walk that defines purpose and resolve from the subconscious to act out it's dreams, the sleep walk. The sleep walk takes focus, determination and the utmost release of all concerns intermittent along the path to the one thing - the Goal. Goals vary widely in the sleep walk, from pre-programmed routine analyses involving water drinking, bathroom breaking, tooth brushing, sandwich making, milk heating, phone calling, roller skating, TV taping - the state of the dream recounts the desires of instinctual, innate bio-formulated thought - as random as random is perpetuated from waves of time.
When arising from a deep sleep, such as in most mornings, I'm the opposite - and at this point, I've dedicated myself to a life of slothing - content in the filth and layers of moon crust in my eyes and nose, just laying around waiting for the next chance to lay a round. The toxic stench from my mouth is little bother - and the prospect of constructing some type of latrine within the boundaries of the bedsheets seems logical at the very first few moments of the morning - to summarize - mornings are most often when I feel the least like myself.
As mentioned, although the wild swings in attitudinal beliefs beliefs towards sleep present a possibly disdain for mornings, I am a true, practicing advocate of sleep. Through my activism, I revolt against the modern day norms of 9-5 pushing the hours away in my attempts to redefine time from the originators who awoke from their dreams as the early birders plucking worms - who disturb slumbers in the wake of weariness. I practice patience as my snores and growly snares overtake my defiance in the most restful silence - the revolution of sleep is not one practiced on the doorsteps of a capitol, it is practiced in the dwindling tug of gravity as the Moon pulls its pulley from the Sun. It beckons soundless words, ballooning matter, and chaos in fusion to the slightest repetitive beats of the heart, and diaphragmic pulses of air - focussing thoughts into waves of inner relaxation - and the renewal of the spirit...
"The lunatic is a wakeful dreamer" - Kant