Sleep, I’m beginning to think, is something of a double-edged sword.
No one, and certainly not I, will deny that it feels good. That morning stretch. That clarity that comes in the waking, body taut, eyes open—a lazy embrace of the sun on your skin, and the warmth in every breath. The slumber brings life.
But that life is capped, in some regards. All that energy draws me on, vaults me into the myriad bounties of action, but it distracts. The clarity purges more than just the bad from my mind—in its relentless sweep, so too does it strike away the creativity.
I can write when I am awake. I can read, of course. But the edge to my thoughts are lost, the shine dulled down into bland mediocrity. My world and my actions are clear, but my thoughts are strained. The flow is lost, replaced by strict attention—good for the editing, poor for the writing. I feel a fog as I wake dreaming, and it is the press through this great darkness that brings me satisfaction.
The body suffers, so the mind wakes.