Sometimes I must say that I am tired of the dream, of the constant of dreaming. Of there being every moment suffused with meaning. I know I used not to live thus, that once, I desired only the opposite — to forget, to escape — and that was all there was, and that this is a blessing to have a world full of signficance; but there is something to be said about indulging the animal in you, if only for a little bit. It is to say that I grow a bit weary of being aware that I am aware. We are none of us wholly from above, like the angelic hosts in the halosphere, we are of middle earth: half from below, as well as the half of heaven. Or at least, this is as it feels like in me, who is no saint, and liable to fleshy desires. Let me think nothing, just for a moment. For I believe that even this moment I waste will not be wasted, but as ease, to let the potential build again.
