In this post, I would like to pick up where I last left off. So, where was I… That’s right, I had begun a book in the wee hours of the night about what it means to be good. I began the book after a sleepless night and a late night/ early morning argument with my father on earth.
I woke up that night about three o’clock in the morning. Ironically, I had fallen asleep trying to read a decidedly average comic novel about an insomniac called Time for Bed. At least, I decided that it was average, but plenty of others might disagree.
Any home housing two insomniacs is going to be one fraught with slight latent tension. My father, also, due to his sleep apnea, also finds it hard to sleep. It’s a terrible affliction, as the sufferer sometimes finds it hard to distinguish between their lack of oxygen and shortened breath and life-threatening attacks of various kinds. I feel sorry for my father, and tend to sneak around late at night if I am awake to avoid waking him, too.
My father, awakened, asked me gruffly to go back to bed and suggested that I was in some way responsible for my poor sleep. There may be some truth in this but I told him brusquely that I had been suffering form insomnia for the best part of two years.
Stewing on my balcony, huddled over, dragging fiercely on the cigarettes I have yet to let go of, a quiet voice comes to me; You can’t sleep, mate. It’s a very still voice that is part of me. I think it’s largely how I have trained myself to talk to myself when I am not at my best. It’s the voice I need to hear that sometimes I am incapable of. If I ever write my book, I would like to teach this very special skill, if only so that in writing about it I can reteach myself.
So, what I am going to do here is to attempt to reread the notes I scrawled that night, in the hope that there is something in them of value for others.
This is the voice I need to hear. If you don’t believe in God or don’t need to believe in God, I reiterate that that is perfectly fine with me. Just consider these musings a window into someone else’s soul. We are all stranded on the same small blue dot circling around the same yellow sun. We do not choose our companions and I prefer to believe there is room enough for most of us. We all count…