To be or not to bethat 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.
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
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