Folded Thought of the Day:


Lying in wait, turning and tossing in a restless search for a few 
hours of honest sleep.  Fighting the heat and dreading the nightmare 
that lies waiting on the other side of consciousness -- the one that 
keeps bringing you back in a rush of adrenaline and fear and awful 
truth. At the mercy of the alarm clock, remaining just on the corner 
of your perception, growing more eminent with each passing minute.

The chimes of the hour take you stepping along the twilight 
staircase.  Move you further into darkness and oblivion, such 
a sweet feeling.  Counting, you realize that the sounds don't 
quite add up, and the steps disappear and you fall back into 
the world.  Eyes open again.  Staring at the ceiling.  Listening 
to the soft hum of the ceiling fan, providing what cool breeze 
it can muster.  Offering little solace. 

Fumble your hands across the nightstand.  Flip on the lamp and 
let out a sigh of humble defeat.  Lost now, with no possible 
route available that will take you into slumber's waiting arms.  
Faced with a quiet world that is taking a big break from its 
routine.  But not you.  The silence and stillness seems to mock 
your state of mind.  This world that demands so much on a daily 
basis, that values the most meaningless of trivialities and 
refuses to acknowledge your existence, now lies dormant as you 
continue your daily struggle.  

Sit up, grab one of the books strewn about the room.  Something 
within fairly easy reach.  "The Stranger" by Camus.  Yeah, that 
seems about right.  With its promise of exploring "the nakedness 
of man faced with the absurd."  Pound the pillow and get comfy.  
You're going to be up a while longer and you know it.  

Softly, you crack the cover and slip into a different world....  

Gasping for breath, you wake in a desperate attempt at survival.  
The room spins in a fevered reverie and explosions are being 
broadcast in front of your eyes.  Let it pass.  Shake it off.  
Be calm.  At some point in those turning of pages you drifted off, 
your mind pleasantly distracted.  Only to be confronted with Mr. 
Nightmare and his Ghoulish Orchestra.  They sure do know how to 
put on a show.  

"The Stranger" lies beside you and you secretly wonder if it's a 
dangerous habit to leave books open as you journey through your 
mind's nocturnal terrain.  You know how writers can be.  Filling 
the pages with secret meanings and strange symbols in an effort 
to capture their psyche.  Indeed, unchecked prose can be quite 
the scary shadow companion.  Especially on a night like this.  

Looking back, it's hard to figure out how many hours of rest 
you got or exactly what was real and what was dreamt...or imagined.  
The morning found its way into your room.  As usual.  And with 
it, the world begins its relentless pursuit as if it had never 
taken a rest.  And you wonder, living for a moment in a state 
of in-between, what all of this could possibly be about.


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