I ponder at the nights of dreamless sleep, overtaken by worthy exhaustion, to rise an honest man. Too often I am trapped in complexities, I make too nimble a decision — that balances too deftly upon the probabilities and possibilities of politics and perception. My sleeping is restless, mundane with nightmares of failure, dreams of escape. I am a sinner who must seek his redemption not by the works he performs, but by desperate prayer when all else fails. I am far too complicated. I know what is right: just the phrase, “God is love,” says it all, that one should simply love, as the One above who is perfect, does: no compromise, no hems and haws, no excuses. But I am only a man, who sometimes half measures are all that he will take in the salvation of himself, if that — so much unfinished, so much not even tried.
I wonder about those unknown saints, who grace the world and the world knows them not, or truly, what they have done, who must sleep so soundly the Devil’s own thunder would not rouse them. I envy them, and compound my sin — for I do little else in considering such souls, nothing like the emulation my Lord would surely recommend. Exhaustion I have had only little tastes of, yet nights where I slept in deepest null I recall not fondly, for I think instead of what had such cause as to render me so exceedingly tired. But perhaps that is righteousness, and I recognized it not: to be harried and hectic, to be busy without cease, and so to think not of oneself, but the (too) many tasks at hand: it would seem my envy is without basis. Or as most envy is, misinformed. And dreamless sleep — perhaps that is a myth, merely that we are too exhausted to remember, but have them we do.
Thus is my lot, to ponder foolish things, returning to the beginning having gone nowhere — the long way round. I know not what I desire. But sometimes, on those trips, how lovely is the scenery.