There are simply times when I am met by this overarching feeling that life is at once strange and endearing. Endearing, perhaps because of its strangeness. Presently, I am met by this feeling and I largely attribute its occurrence to the fact that sleep has been difficult to come by for the past three days. I would estimate I have amassed six hours of sleep in three days. It's nothing at all to worry over, of course, because sleep debt is always repaid eventually.
I took medicine to help myself sleep this morning. After some time, it finally took effect, and I unknowingly was met by sleep, for a time at least. Finally, however, I awoke far too quickly drenched in sweat. The reason for this was because the power was out, and the air conditioning unit in my room had long since working. Now, in a foggy veil of translucence, I rose from bed, resigned to the fact that I would now spend more time awake. The very first thought I had was that we are not supposed to be awake this often, although I could not explain precisely why that is.
Whether due to this lack of sleep or the lingering effects of the medication I had taken, I approached the mirror. What I gazed upon was obviously me, yet I felt it an alien presentation. Continuing with this thought, I regarded myself as a stranger trapped in my own body. I surveyed my body, my arms and legs. I was content to be in this body. My hair was messy but in a composed sort of way, as if I intended it to be this way. Is this the trend? I have no way of knowing, because I am in Iraq and these things go unnoticed to me. Finally, the stranger within me is contented with its new body.
I have approached the rest of the day in a similar fog. I do not work today, so I don't feel any pressing need to sleep or be at any particular engagement. I have read over two hundred pages of the current book I'm reading, and will likely read hundreds more as the day goes on. It is a timeless day, the likes of which I haven't experienced in some time. If I were to allot a certain time in my life to liken to this moment, I would reference to summer break when I was in elementary school. No obligations and no pressure to do any one thing.
Furthermore, just as in those times long ago as a kid in the summer with no particular expectations placed upon him, I spend my time in solitude. It never really occurs to me that I am alone, and especially never lonely. I suppose I attribute this to being an only child, and a child who grew up fascinated with books.
When I consider the many chores which must be carried out to survive -- eating, drinking, cleaning oneself, sleeping, to be very basic -- I feel at times that we as human beings are just very high maintenance. Yet, when I consider that it takes not much more than these things to be happy, and to thrive with a sense of meaning in one's life, I cannot help but feel we are very complete creatures. True, we're born into this world with everything we're ever going to need. With hope we all come to this realization at some point in our lives, and all of the extraneous possessions and longings and resentments just gradually subside. That is when we get on with the business of really living well.
As I looked into the mirror at my own image -- and I did this for some time -- I regarded myself as this creature. The creature who was brought into this existence with all the faculties needed to prevail in every moment. On the other hand, I do not always feel this way, because my mind is still very much untrained and I do let my guard down. Yet this is something to celebrate, because with every new moment I am afforded, I am granted hope. Hope is each moment given to us to live true to ourselves, with authenticity.
Perhaps I should forego sleep more often. Perhaps I should be in Iraq, foregoing sleep, staring blankly at my own image, more often. Then again, maybe I should simply be, hm?
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