Dazed and Confused

What follows is an email I wrote to myself late last night. I wrote it at a time that a man should not have to be awake. Alas, however, I had no choice.


The following comments are only edited for spelling, and nothing else:


Earth cannot produce environment more destitute than 2 AM. Thoughts wander, never fully formed. Words die in the Middle. The middle of what? Is it that those words left unsaid, unwritten and unthought slip somewhere else, into the deep alter-reality alter-universe of sleep? Do memories, questions, fears, ideas fully blossom to potential? Blossom on the other side of the Veil?


Wonder....


The morning after a rainstorm is full of life. Nature picks herself up, come out of hiding, and moves back into the rhythm of life. Earth worms are no exception. The worm runs to the surface in search of air, finds it, only to discover a scant few hours later that a mad dash back underground must take place in order to survive. Sometimes a worm is halfway back in when a boot, or a stick nastily cleave the might worm in two. The half that made it back underground will regenerate and live on.


Are conscience functions like this. Constantly slipping between sleep and wakefulness in search of growing to full length? What thoughts am I harboring that are waiting to recoup in order to contribute once again.


Is sitting up at 2 AM unable to sleep harming those ideas? Do they die, as parts of my brain randomly change from sleep to wake? One one side a boot crushes an idea, only to be crushed from the other side simultaneously as that sector jumps lines?