Perhaps I can change my attitude on the day simply by giving myself the freedom to sleep for a few hours this morning. That might cure whatever psychological beast that troubles me. An alpaca-soft blanket that blocks out the world could do the trick.
I try, but usually fail, to avoid making self-diagnoses based on symptoms I exhibit. The latest diagnosis, the symptoms of which I have recognized for at least a year and a half, is hypersomnia. Until quite recently, I called the malady narcolepsy, but a more focused examination suggests idiopathic hypersomnia is the more appropriate label. According to the Cleveland Clinic, “Because we don’t know what causes it, it’s impossible to prevent it.” I know this: sleep is—for me—extremely satisfying. I wish it were not so, but sleep has become an extremely pleasing state of existence for me. If I could sleep around the clock (excluding troublesome dreams from my experience), I think I would be quite happy with my circumstances. Once again, though, I did not sleep well last night. I tossed and turned for a substantial part of the night, failing in my efforts to sink into a deep, satisfying sleep. Damn it. I feel, right now, like I could fall instantly asleep and remain in that state of unconscious bliss for several hours. But that would trigger repercussions that would simply make me increasingly angry. Serenity is what I’m after. Pleasant serenity.
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Someone who calls himself a realist has great self-confidence—when forecasting the weather—in his ability to predict the future. I call him a gambler. What I call him, though, does not matter as much as whether his predictions are reliably correct. When his forecasts are dependably correct, I refrain from applying a label to him, opting instead to apply it to myself.
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The world looks a bit dull and grey this morning, despite light blue skies with whisps of white, hazy clouds. Bright sunlight is visible reflecting off trees in the distance, challenging my perspective on the day. If I had wanted brightness, I would have welcomed it into my visual sphere. But, against my wishes, it shine on green trees, washing away the dull light of morning and leaving a polished, refined shine where I want nothing of the sort. I have no substantive control over my view of the world.
