I have a special place I go that feeds my soul like no place else.
While I'm there I can be anything, I can do anything - I am all things I know that I can be.
I dream amazing things there, too. Inventions, recipes, parenting strategies, professional advances. I see it all so clearly, all the things I can and should do. I'm brilliant there. I believe in myself. My future is now when I am there.
And nothing can stop me.
At least, until slumber takes me and then the alarm clock goes off the next day, returning me - in Groundhog Day fashion, to the day previously lived with none of the insight I had while laying on my pillowtop mattress the night before.
Scumbag brain. My middle-aged body doesn't de-fog quite so easily in the morning anymore, and it seems to carry the fog further through each day.
When I was a kid, I used to fight going to sleep with every fiber of my being. Now sleep is a luxury. A daydreamed-about mini-vacation that we all long to take at the end of the day. Or anytime of day.
Sleep is the new sex. I brag about it, like I used to brag about my love life. "I slept the whole night!" has replaced "Yeah, we went at it all night!" and I couldn't care less. The thought of eight hours of uninterrupted sleep now brings me more ecstasy than the thought of an hour of sultry, steamy, sensuality with anyone other than Johnny Depp. (I had to qualify that. I'm not stupid.)
To sleep. Perchance to dream. Or just sleep. I'm good with that.