Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
Only when the coldness of the night starts to grasp hold of your thoughts, the warm lullaby of sleep subsides and makes place for mindful thinking. Watching the surroundings like a child, you finally notice the book in the cupboard and the stone on the desk which had both been lying there for ages — unnoticed by the daily “attention”.
Closing the eyes, you realise that the view becomes clearer and the clouds vanish. Looking inside to see what’s ahead… In the blink of an eye, the images vanish and a different reality awakes, surrealistic like a dream, but as real as the linen of the bed beneath your very fingertips. There it is, the part of your personality, the part you cannot know, but which is guiding your actions without any asking. Only from the nightly metaposition one may really watch, and even then, the question arrives:
“What is one?”
A question that may fill the mind, the room, your whole universe — until the gate of sleep finally turns around and you start drifting into the fantastic dreamscenes of memories. The point of no return just overwhelmingly went past, but right before, the few milliseconds of grasping your whole life in a single thought imprint themselves in memory automagically. One of the moments you always know to have been real, but in detail lost forever, until the next cycle might begin. Is death the final complete self-contemplative moment without the loss of detail, the complete grasp of all you are and will be?
In morning all those thoughts are lost, the relentless ringing and the exterior force to move about destroy even the faintest memory of that magic moment — But sometimes, rarely, a glimpse is caught again when equilibrium is all you feel.