I need to spend more time outside. What informs me of this does not speak so much as tell. I need to be able to wake in the sun. The cozy dark of the bedroom makes the waking a chore, an exit instead of an entrance.
It was never my choice, except in complicity, to sleep in the inner room, the only room in the house, in fact, with no windows. It is not the room to spend a third of one’s heartbeats in.
A window is reason enough for itself.
Complicity is a conspiracy of pramatics and the rational mind; a point of view I put far too much store in, for who can explain the ebullience that comes from the out of doors? Scientists (the followers of scientism, mind you) give you pO2 quantities and other such ablative absolutes or they’ll present sublime yet uncertain oblations to evolutionary theory, but all tacks fail to capture the nonesuch experience.
It was never my idea to sleep in that room.
Pragmatics always seem to win in the end; the solution is in reimagining what an end is. Playing the pragmatistic game is merely a philosopher’s self-loathing and it seems that mostly only a greater practical need can vanquish an in-place practicality.
That game always ends badly.
If you dismiss any particular end and instead opt for obeisance to deictics, pragmatism becomes only a means to an end—and remember, the end which can no longer be defined.
Choose instead an indexical quality: say, happiness.
Happiness, to borrow the pragmatism of the scientists, must surely be predicated on the qi; energies must align and such alignments are relative to the form of the person.
Perhaps sleep is not a thing the awake should abide. Perhaps awakening is a dream to the sleeper. Rollaway, hideaway, stowaway. No reminders of sleep while awake, and the sleeping should inhabit all in the time it’s given.
The feng shui of a Murphy Bed in the torpor of turgid prose.