Sleep

The days are dying. I am eating them. Not relishing every bit of it, just gulping whatever I find. The dusty sleep is inherently killing the day. These days, I like to call my life as sleep. Now they are more or less synonymous. When I sleep I am nothing but an empty sack. Breathing only to create that foul odour in mouth. Stinky smell of sweat creeping in dry wind of summer marks my existence. When I am awake, I check my pulse. The cold beat of heart only found in neck substantiates my living state. After closely inspecting all the untidy things which surrounds me, I assure me that nothing can be pristine, seraphic.  Then I'll romanticise the art of time which dumps fine dust over every surface. The gust of so-called reality hits me hard to say, to remind, that there are acts of cleaning, of mending. I'll look at my long outgrown nails and contemplate on my suffering, illness and powerlessness to get up. Is this laziness? Deep in my heart I know that it is not that past lame reason to procrastinate. It is the actual weakness of mind, of body, and may be, of soul. When I am awake I hate me. I curse me. When I sleep, I don't exist, like in death. To lack the courage to completely vanish ends up in partial absence, that is sleep. Oh Hamlet, you are such a fool!