There he was, waiting for another train. He was so sick of the subways. Always late. Dirty. Noisy. Flying maniac kids dancing for dollars. Bad musicians. Endless panhandlers. And the so-called ... [+]
Who Needs Sleep When Life is a Dream?
My love for life is unequivocal & unwavering, & when you love something, you never want to say goodbye. Each time I close my eyes, the whole world I hold so dearly gets left behind. I try to avoid doing such. How does my sleep schedule feel about this? Not the best, but there's balance. imbalance. I get just enough shut-eye to survive, but coffee is what makes me thrive. Is my heart still churning, my veins still surging with blood- or is it just coffee? One shot, two shot, three shots of espresso. How much to get me to the end of the day? A Wawa run in the A.M., matcha. A convoy to Sadler Lunch, French vanilla. Swemroma mocha before Boswell, and a Daily Grind chai after class if I'm feeling frisky. I picked my poison.
Late September, I tried to quit caffeine. My habits were unhealthy from a physical standpoint, but I was also rather conscious that ISC Starbucks was the perpetrator behind my dining dollar deficiency. It had been decided. I was NOT a coffee drinker. What I was, was a bonehead who sought no further action to compensate for sleep deprivation. It was then and there that in a decaffeinated rage, I plummeted graciously down the Boswell stairs and sprained my ankle. Perhaps I could've successfully quit caffeine had I just gone to bed earlier, had I incorporated naps into my routine, had I not spend every waking hour being the resident second-floor swem-gremlin. It was constant mental exertion, followed by physical rigor, then more mental then more physical then more mental with very, very, sparse breaks. Why was it always "do"? Why couldn't I just "be"? I wanted to be superman. I wanted to do everything. Why did I have to one-up myself? Always? I knew it was unsustainable and maybe even selfish by sacrificing my brain and body, the very things responsible for maintaining life in an ill-attempt to give my personal life more meaning. My humanity? I was a zombie. Purple eyebags, sickened complexion, sleepwalking across campus. William & Mary without sleep is skydiving without a parachute, landing a plane without knowing how to ride a bicycle. Driving like you're from Virginia.
Life is fruitful, but it is not a dream. Go to bed.
My love for life is unequivocal & unwavering, & when you love something, you never want to say goodbye. Each time I close my eyes, the whole world I hold so dearly gets left behind. I try to avoid doing such. How does my sleep schedule feel about this? Not the best, but there's balance. imbalance. I get just enough shut-eye to survive, but coffee is what makes me thrive. Is my heart still churning, my veins still surging with blood- or is it just coffee? One shot, two shot, three shots of espresso. How much to get me to the end of the day? A Wawa run in the A.M., matcha. A convoy to Sadler Lunch, French vanilla. Swemroma mocha before Boswell, and a Daily Grind chai after class if I'm feeling frisky. I picked my poison.
Late September, I tried to quit caffeine. My habits were unhealthy from a physical standpoint, but I was also rather conscious that ISC Starbucks was the perpetrator behind my dining dollar deficiency. It had been decided. I was NOT a coffee drinker. What I was, was a bonehead who sought no further action to compensate for sleep deprivation. It was then and there that in a decaffeinated rage, I plummeted graciously down the Boswell stairs and sprained my ankle. Perhaps I could've successfully quit caffeine had I just gone to bed earlier, had I incorporated naps into my routine, had I not spend every waking hour being the resident second-floor swem-gremlin. It was constant mental exertion, followed by physical rigor, then more mental then more physical then more mental with very, very, sparse breaks. Why was it always "do"? Why couldn't I just "be"? I wanted to be superman. I wanted to do everything. Why did I have to one-up myself? Always? I knew it was unsustainable and maybe even selfish by sacrificing my brain and body, the very things responsible for maintaining life in an ill-attempt to give my personal life more meaning. My humanity? I was a zombie. Purple eyebags, sickened complexion, sleepwalking across campus. William & Mary without sleep is skydiving without a parachute, landing a plane without knowing how to ride a bicycle. Driving like you're from Virginia.
Life is fruitful, but it is not a dream. Go to bed.