To be or not to be—that is the question.
To be asleep's the answer; thus I say.
For, sleeping, I am being just the same
As when I carry on my waking day,
But also it's a kind of being not
More palatable than death, and full of sights
And sounds and odd-ball notions, sundry junk
Which fall together into a kind of life.
At sunrise we confront our earthly woes:
A long commute, wayward and noisy children,
A death-march project with ill-formed specifications,
This person's feelings; that one's obligations.
Give me a sedative and feed me daily,
And I will dream such worlds as suited to me.
Entropy lurks in my apartment;
Waking brings me into a nightmare world.
I have to clean the bathroom today
Since my parents arrive tomorrow.
I feel like Sisyphus when cleaning:
Condemned to push his stone up the long, annoying hill,
Only to have it roll down as soon as he's completed the task.
Dust re-collects.
There is truth in dust
Like there is truth in death and taxes.
I prefer forward motion,
Progression, cadence, and resolution.
Cleaning is a pitiful assertion against the eternal forces of the universe
And not as much fun as eating or sleeping,
Or even studying topology.
Now I think I understand why kings generally preferred fighting
wars
Rather than maintaining a state peaceably.
Dead enemies usually stay dead;
Dust returns, and with it, a host of petty woes.
There is a kind of comical drama in the procession of dust.
It is everywhere and it laughs at all the poor fools
Who think they can banish it forever.
George Chadderdon © 1997