Of the very few things I've been able to correctly do today, writing hasn't been one of them.
An Unseen Privilege
Itís a common clichť, but one that holds cogency;
Much like my grandmother would say ingenuously:
ďPeople take too many things for granted.Ē
But contrary to the prevalent unnoticed objects that validate this clichť,
Sleep just isnít money, itís not shelter, itís not family, and itís not food.
Sleep: dormancy, torpidity, slumber, quiescence; itís always there at your disposal,
Itís one of the most easily achieved forms of gratification, and itís so neglected.
So forgotten is the ability to wear yourself thin, wading in the worldís injurious trouble,
Lay your head, which enshrouds everything deplorable to be liberated in dreams for others to inhale, gingerly on your pillow, and slip into a feathery coma.
And to wake up in the morning with a lucid demeanor,
To wade once more into societyís thick poison,
And to be refreshed while such filth erodes your foundation is an unseen privilege.