Turn, Turn, Turn

My brain doesn't seem to want to cooperate.

All I'm getting are quotes from The Shining

"Danny isn't here right now, Mrs. Torrance."

"Heeere's Johnny!"

Indeed.

I feel like a 5 year-old,

Wearing these matchy-matchy pajamas,

Made of fleece, and all the same pattern.

I am all mulberry-colored, and swathed in static.

Do five year-olds like these type of pajamas?

Do they like feety pajamas?

I never did.

It's funny,

How I wrote more in two weeks during school,

Than the two weeks without school.

Sixteen pages for the two weeks of school,

And only a handful of poems for the two without.

Hmm.

Do you think

That sleep can be counted as part of living?

There seems to be just living and dying,

But why shouldn't sleep be a third sort of thing?

Living,

Dying,

Sleeping.

Because as we sleep, all snug in our beds,

Are we living? I think not.

Are we dying? It wouldn't seem so.

So I think sleep

Deserves a category all its own.

Wouldn't you agree?

For the time of dreamscapes and counting sheepies,

Dreaming of sailboats and giant monsters, and outerspace.

It deserves to be individual.

I like to separate my sleeping from my living.

Dreams say things about us that I don't think we're

Completely aware of.

Speaking of dreams.

I am sleepy.

You should be, as well.

For the hour is "late".

Not at all, really,

But I must be up at eight.

So sleep it is.

Adieu, adieu.

I love you.