In Praise of Hypnos

          This evening I write in praise of, admiration, love, and lust, for sleep, something precious that for most of my life I have failed to properly cherish. At this point I crave a good night's sleep more than a fine meal, more than spectacular sex, more than a long night of revelry, or a long night of reading, TV viewing, or great conversation . . . although good conversation is one of the few things for which I will still keep the Sandman at bay. Maybe I would delay sleep for spectacular sex, too, or mediocre sex, or lousy sex . . . maybe one night I'll find out where I am with that.
          I now feel humbled by my friends . . . Geoff, Jay, Janene, Lisa, Mark, Greg, and other successful people . . . who always understood,  insisted upon the importance of sleep, even if it meant depriving me of the pleasure of their company (though I am still grateful to those who, like me, were slow students and stayed on with me until morning). I was always the guy who thought he'd be fine getting to bed at four (not necessarily partying--maybe just watching Chinese movies, or talking with a friend, staring at something stupid on TV) and waking up at seven to get ready for work. And I thought I was fine--no diminished performance or mental acuity--I once thought I had some of that--I didn't really. I was deluded. Ah, to think of what I might have accomplished with a better-rested life. Probably not much more, but  those sleepy friends were a lot smarter than I. Even as a younger man, Geoff understood the importance of sleep--not that he didn't know how to party; but he learned from his mistakes. I think I remember the night he decided it just wasn't worth it . . . and that was a long time ago, and it was my fault. I think his wife helped him with that realization when he got home; but the point is that he learned. It took me a long time.
          But now, bed, I adore thee. When I'm finished working at, say, 11:00 p.m., you beckon me, seduce me with your cool, fresh sheets, and downey pillows. The darkness, the cold air slipping through the window--just open a bit--and wafting over my head and back, call me to yield my weary, waking self to delicious, ambrosial repose. I relish sleep. I'm as content as a baby sucking at his mother's nipple--at least I think I am: If only I could be awake while I'm asleep to fully enjoy it, to take it all in. It passes too quickly, instantly really: sleeping to waking, punctuated only by dreams that can consume days or years in seconds. And in these dreams I might be anywhere, do anything. I can suckle at countless nipples, fly, run with long, powerful legs around the world, be pope or president, beggar, beast, or a guest on Letterman (I have appeared three times on his show in my dreams--famous for nothing and without words, a mistake). Or I can be recaptured by despair, sad memories that will haunt me throughout the next day . . . guilt, remorse, self-hatred.
          Nevertheless, sleep, I love thee! I usually return from you rested and ready, whether I feel it upon waking or not, to face the day's stresses and challenges. And what challenges a day can bring us! What sorrows, joys, victories, and humiliating defeats! What sameness and boredom, until our boredom is broken by tragedy or a rare pleasant surprise, and we wake to the realization that we have not been living at all, but sleeping while awake: the living dead.
         I used to see sleep as wasted time. I didn't want to miss anything that might happen. But, as your mother certainly told you, though mine forgot to tell me, nothing good happens after . . . midnight, two . . . fill in the blank. If we are asleep, however, nothing but good happens once Hypnos pulls us into his cave, even to frighten us.