Refuge

Sleep catches me unawares, and takes me by force, into its depths, where the universe and its matters are of no consequence, no value. It sweeps me off my feet into another dimension altogether, away from that which anchors us to reality and so all its weight.

But to sleep is to lose will, for what is sleep but lack of control? For when will is strong and the goal is in sight, sleep is not a barrier rather a refuge. Sleep cannot catch one unawares when one has companions, companions through the night that serve you well. And what are books but our companions? And what is sleep but a test of our will to find out?

But what should one do, when one is weak of heart, of mind, of will? When no goal is in sight, only a dusty well-worn path down memory lane? Sleep is refuge, from all doings that catch up to you as you run faster. Books are but the cousins of sleep, offering refuge of another sort, but still subject to the sudden attacks of reality one yearns to avoid. Books hen, do not provide the safety one might desire. Sleep is refuge, true but it only delays, for reality is faster, stronger. Books may be harsher than sleep, but they will always offer solutions, if one only looks for them. For if sleep and memory served as readily as books, what choice would you have but to visit? Visit old things, to learn anew?