the school newspaper printed an editorial of mine recently..... here it goes, i'm going to take a nap:

Confessions of an empty siesta taker:

Not being quite sure if this text qualifies as an editorial, I commence nonetheless. There is a myriad of topics more than worthy of the time spent on what I am now writing; however, I find that there is one thought that pervades all my others, and I hope to free myself from its shackles by giving it breath on paper. This pervasive thought of mine is accompanied with sleep - a sleep that begins whenever it chooses and which is most often dreamless. This sleep is both my enemy and ally - symptom and remedy. It is ready to take me at any hour of the day or night, and I do not resist. This sleep, this state of nonbeing, is not the same creature as regular nighttime sleep, which includes realms of the unconsciousness and the innermost workings of the soul. It is rather the antithesis of real sleep; it is what allows me to escape the monotony of everydayness with its soulless demands and expectations. Yet it is also what leaves me upon my every awakening even emptier than before. It is a not-only-nocturnal thief for whom I leave the key under the mat every day, for I welcome this stealthy thievery, this midday plundering. I ask myself what to name this thought whose weapon I call the salvation of nonbeing. It's been called all sorts of things by poets who command more words than I. But these names give the unnamed a certain tangible quality, for it is known that to name is to control. Thus, I have no name for my elusive bedfellow whose impenetrable fisherman's net I enter daily with relief. I seek not to control him, for he supplies me with my drug, and although this substance destroys bit by bit what lingers of my careening soul, it saves me from the sad trappings of my daily subsistence. I seek only the courage to oust the usurper and take back what is rightfully mine. I wish only to exist and to cease merely going through these motions of living. I long to recover from a period so long of being sick that I've forgotten what it's like to be well again. I crave repose full of vision and color and the blurred images of the unconscious. I dream that I sleep, I dream that I dream.