To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub.
Shakespeare wrote these words exploring death and more specifically suicide.
In the same play, Hamlet states unequivocally, as of late - wherefore i know not- lost all my mirth.
Two sentiments, that I have expressed over and over to those who know me best.
But in my efforts to move forward with my life, I have found my mirth. It was no where other than within my mind. Sure i still have days when it seems to be dormant, but for weeks now it has not been missing in that place i know not.
It's the sleeping with which I have trouble. Shakespeare suggested, and Stoppard stated plainly that being dead was nothing more than being asleep in a box. Tom Stoppard, as a matter of fact, gave a nod to Hamlet beginning his To Be or Not to Be... speech and then had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern define the struggle Hamlet considered. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all. The suffering we've endured is at least something we know we can bear. Religion, with its hopes of afterlife does nothing more than propagate fear of the worse thing that is death. If death is a restful sleep, there would be no fear and killing oneself would be as easy a decision as the breakfast cereal one chooses. However, if death has the potential to be worse than life, who would want to close their eyes in the big sleep?
But as of late, I have, in regaining my mirth, have suffered bad dreams. One friend asked, like discovering you're naked in high school? No. It's being murdered in the basement kind of dreams. Last night I flipped a car and not only killed myself, but a couple other people because someone was chasing me and was trying to kill me. And then there are the dreams where I am confined and being tortured while my aggressor explains why I deserve the beatings and blood. (It all comes down to making me as ugly on the outside as I am on the inside.)
And in reason, I know the dream is the brain's way to file memories with images it knows. But when the fear of dreaming prevents sleep -- well, I become as ugly as the abuser suggested I am. My disposition, my eyes, my skin....
And I have entertained the possibility that after the big concussion, I had fallen into a coma from which I never recovered and I remain sleeping in this horrendous dream....
Today, I was reminded the redundancy of this conundrum and I'm going to ask forgiveness; but i'm struggling with the lack of sleep and questioning my thoughts. If the payment for mirth is disturbing dreams, i'm not sure a smile is worth the insomnia.
Shakespeare wrote these words exploring death and more specifically suicide.
In the same play, Hamlet states unequivocally, as of late - wherefore i know not- lost all my mirth.
Two sentiments, that I have expressed over and over to those who know me best.
But in my efforts to move forward with my life, I have found my mirth. It was no where other than within my mind. Sure i still have days when it seems to be dormant, but for weeks now it has not been missing in that place i know not.
It's the sleeping with which I have trouble. Shakespeare suggested, and Stoppard stated plainly that being dead was nothing more than being asleep in a box. Tom Stoppard, as a matter of fact, gave a nod to Hamlet beginning his To Be or Not to Be... speech and then had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern define the struggle Hamlet considered. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all. The suffering we've endured is at least something we know we can bear. Religion, with its hopes of afterlife does nothing more than propagate fear of the worse thing that is death. If death is a restful sleep, there would be no fear and killing oneself would be as easy a decision as the breakfast cereal one chooses. However, if death has the potential to be worse than life, who would want to close their eyes in the big sleep?
But as of late, I have, in regaining my mirth, have suffered bad dreams. One friend asked, like discovering you're naked in high school? No. It's being murdered in the basement kind of dreams. Last night I flipped a car and not only killed myself, but a couple other people because someone was chasing me and was trying to kill me. And then there are the dreams where I am confined and being tortured while my aggressor explains why I deserve the beatings and blood. (It all comes down to making me as ugly on the outside as I am on the inside.)
And in reason, I know the dream is the brain's way to file memories with images it knows. But when the fear of dreaming prevents sleep -- well, I become as ugly as the abuser suggested I am. My disposition, my eyes, my skin....
And I have entertained the possibility that after the big concussion, I had fallen into a coma from which I never recovered and I remain sleeping in this horrendous dream....
Today, I was reminded the redundancy of this conundrum and I'm going to ask forgiveness; but i'm struggling with the lack of sleep and questioning my thoughts. If the payment for mirth is disturbing dreams, i'm not sure a smile is worth the insomnia.
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