The Death of Sleep

Sleep is pointless.

Life over death on a whim. Sitting with my back resting on the trunk of a content Oak, the air filled with a green smell as I watch the sun set. Orange and yellow, a gentle breeze blows into and over my face, the familiar patterns emerge twinkling in the dark blue sky.

When one night's sleep gives enough strength to withstand the next day's burden. When you realise eternity is not just for the afterlife. A moment alone, to be aware of all our senses. To become them, to forget them, sets us free.

When sleep is the only escape, like water quenches thirst. When you can count on the finger tips of one hand the number of thoughts that keep you alive. The weight of two whole universes - not coincidentally the distance between your dreams and reality.

Sleep is pointless, we only wake up to our troubles again.