It’s 2:01 am. I’m still awake.
Moments ago I received this Tweet, from a nice follower known as GB …
Truth is, I don’t sleep much. Five hours a night usually. Six, sometimes. Every so often, seven or eight. It’s not that I don’t have the opportunity—my kids are out by (latest) 9:30, and no one is keeping me up. It’s just, well, sometimes I look a photographs like the one atop this post and think, “What’s the rush to close my eyes?”
The two people are my grandparents, Mollie and Nat. Both warm, loving, great folks. Both now 100-percent dead.
When I see Grandpa and Grandma, in these faded images, they look all young and vigorous and filled with life and dreams and hopes. I can still hear their voices; can still see their apartment and still picture my annual visits to their Ft. Lauderdale condo. In other words, they were once me. You. Us.
Alive.
Now they’re not.
So, no, I don’t love sleeping. Because, ultimately, we all close our eyes—for eternity. We are gone, nothing, dirt, worm cuisine. I’m in no rush to not exist.
So why the hell start early?
I prefer to be awake.
(That said—yawwwwwn. I’m off to bed …)
