As soon as my foot touches my other foot, a fiery sensation shatters the glass bubble of drowsiness with which I was ostracized. When we sleep, we are always alone. No matter who, or no matter how many there are that is beside us when we sleep, when we enter the realm of improbable reality we are alone. All by ourselves, trudging the road that leads us nowhere but the shadows of uncertainty. No matter how much we think that the time when we close our eyes, mesmerized by the melodious hums of sleep, we sleep together with thousands, if not millions of others, we enter the gates of the unrevealed by ourselves. And upon our waking up, we are still alone. That is why I am scared of sleeping. Not because I might not wake up, but because no matter how I leave conspicuous footprints behind me, no one is still going to follow me.

They say that the closest we have from dying is when we are sleeping. It is like when we are asleep, we are quasi-dead. I could not agree more to that idea. When we sleep, we know nothing about where we are, we know nothing about what we are doing, and we know nothing about who we are; succinctly, we are dead. Have you ever wonder that no matter how long our sleep is, the only thing we can remember when we try to remember is the final moments before we decide to close our eyes and shut off our consciousness? What happens in between that final fleeting moment and the opening of our eyes irritated by the light? There seems to be a void in between, and no matter how and what we try to fill that void, we just can’t. The only vindications of our being alive when we are asleep are our dreams. Dreams completely blow my mind. How they come to be and why can’t we remember even a quarter of it when we are awake? From my constant inquiry and mindless thinking, I came to an absurd, though interesting idea: if sleep is the closest thing we have from dying, are dreams the closest thing we have from a life after death? What if? What if dreams are what dead people feel? Just floating around an ocean of pitch black nothingness, soaring above the existing. You see, the more you soar high, the tinier you become.

Sometimes, I think every time; people soar so high above everyone else and then complain that nobody gives them attention. We should once in a while land the runways of people, meet people, and talk to people, converse to people. As Schweitzer said, we are so many, and yet we are still dying of loneliness. Then again, we are all alone in this world. Hands on our chin, looking outside behind a window the panoramic shriveling of reality, and all the while fantasizing our invulnerability of time consuming even the least palatable of existence. But the hope of having to share that aloneness to other alone people is by itself already an impetus to continue to live life.

Let me apologize sincerely and humbly the erratic flux of topics. I have been always, and I never did deny that fact, that I am an organized clutter. How you organize a clutter, I do not know. Let us just say that it is given in me. I’m here once again stuck behind a pixelized screen of glowing, squinting, eye-gouging, sinusitis-inducing, soporific rectangle encompassing life and death and hope and opportunity, thinking of things which a normal sentient man would not dare think, trying to comprehend which an average and undaft being would not even dare comprehend. I am incarcerated behind a corral of self-fabricated reality, fantasizing the shriveling of reality outside the corral which I have incarcerated myself. I have stricken myself more, injected my deltoid muscle with an ample dose of grandeur. I have made myself invulnerable of whatever is happening outside my own reality. Blah! As if I’d do that! I’m more a slave to reality than any other sentient, sensate, erratic being around. Inasmuch as I want to escape, I’m running on a treadmill with which the speed I am unable to cope up, and I’m slowly exhausting whatever is left of my reserved vigor. My lips are dry, desiring more and more for water, my muscles have secreted a million grams of lactic acid, I’m beginning to sense the cramps, and my sweat can be extracted from the cloth with which I used to wipe them. Summer! You evaporate whatever is left of my untamed mind.

My aimless meandering will leave those who will read this with an ashen expression. A what-the-hell-is-he-trying-to-say statement will be etched into their minds. And I can’t blame them. If there would be someone to be blamed, it would be me. I’ll exonerate them from not understanding this, for even the author of this is unable to understand. Before this goes from erratic to chaotic, let me end this with a confession: I’m happy. The reason of which, must remain hidden beneath the sands of confidentiality. All I know is (well, I know much, but it should stay behind the window pane fronting the passing of reality), I’m happy someone suddenly appeared, sent a nonsensical, though never fails to etch a smile unto my grumpy night face message. Her digital laughs can catalyze a real smile. I’ll send you a digital one too. Hope it affects you, the way yours affects me. Life’s digital! Let’s be binary, you and me. =]