We spend a third of our lives sleeping.
We sleep in, with, and around.
Encouraged by those around us we sleep on it, sleep it off and often lose it altogether.
Sleep is the facilitator of dreams.
The measured, calm overseer indulging the boisterous puppy of dreams.
The facilitator, yes, but in its own right the thing our bodies crave the most at the end of a long day, the thing most notable by its absence and when it evades us.
Physically we cannot fight it.
The gentle figure who really does know best, calmly, quietly nudging with slow-blinking eyes, nodding heads and increasingly heavy limbs in a measured crescendo towards all-out slumber.
The full stop, new sentence at the end of a day to forget; the semi-colon of excitement and anticipation cascading from one day to the next.
Sleep is the one great leveller: it is its only cure.
Great men and women; warmongers and thieves.
Sometimes we should let sleeping dogs lie.
And on that note, to sleep.
Perchance to dream.
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