The dogs were in a wee hours war:
Growling and snapping and howling,
Breaching night's plutonian shore,
And sweet dreams those barks were fouling.
What monstrous dreamland incursions
That yapping must have brought about.
Bucolic scenes turned perversions
Of bared teeth and menacing snout.
I don't remember my dreams --
not in the middle of the night
and not in the morning.
But, sometimes, I catch a glimpse
at a random instant:
composing a poem,
reflecting on a passage
from a book,
eating a cracker...
But my dreams are like
frightened animals,
turning my attention
directly upon them,
makes them skitter off...,
vanishing into the thicket.
My dreams vanish like they
were never really there,
and I am left wondering
just what I saw.
The harder I try to remember,
the more severely I scrub
my mental hard drive,
purging all shapes and motions,
until my recollection is nothing
but a vague residue of feeling.
I don't KNOW that it was a dream.
I couldn't swear to it.
All I know is that it's an image
that I can't tie to my waking life,
can't tie to any person, place,
or thing I know to be real.
(And, often enough, it's an image
that couldn't exist in the real world.)
I couldn't remember it as a dream,
but - somehow - I intensely FEEL
that it was a dream,
but the Dream is deep down in its hole,
shaking like a critter that
was almost snatched up by
a monster too awful to
contemplate....
and, somehow, I am that monster.
Morning, definitely.
If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
Probably the same stuff. I’m reminded of Parkinson’s Law that states that activities [ie work] expand to fill the time allotted. Plus, there would still be mental housekeeping tasks to be done. It’s not like sleep is just wasted time (contrary to popular belief.) There is a great deal of important stuff that gets done in body and brain during sleep. If you think your memory is bad now…
So, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep my sleep. I don’t think it’ll make the slightest difference in losing work to AI. (John Henry folklore notwithstanding.)
The pounding sound of rhythmic drums shatters stillness this eve. I know not whether snares are banged to celebrate or grieve. The pace isn't slow enough to guide a somber procession, nor does it race at the pace of jocular expression. It's a well-kept beat, approaching, that makes the windows shake, but seems suitable only for keeping me awake.
Rested. Definitely. I believe one has to think of rest and recovery as part of the process of living. If one thinks of it as just wasting time between “doing things,” then one isn’t going to get the most out of body and mind.
The evening winds are blowing out to sea,
and carry away all the woes of day.
You see the sway up in the waving trees
that give a sendoff to what's blown away.
The sea grows dark, and darkness envelops.
And sandy scents and fishy scents blossom.
And sounds of crashing waves seem to swell up,
as vision decides it will play possum.
Then stars - in veins - do shimmer between clouds,
the clouds one cannot see but can induce.
Now free from both the light and noise of crowds,
and all the human chaos and abuse.
Midst drifting shapes my mind is lulled to peace,
then all that is - both sea and wind - does cease...
a Red Panda awakens from its nap, walks, and naps some more
through bleary eyes,
i look out to see the moon,
then fall back to sleep
In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep, and know that I'll be cursed in dreams. I'll drift upon Stygian streams at speeds between trickle and creep, listening for some distant screams. In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep, and know that I'll be cursed in dreams trapped down below the castle keep, until the King should come to deem me worthy of some healing dreams. In haunted hours, I wilt to sleep, and know that I'll be cursed with dreams, drifting upon Stygian streams.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 