Sleeping

There is day and there is night. There is black and there is white. There is empty and there is full. When I was younger I hated it when the day had to end. At one or two in the morning only the dogs are awake; they are so fidgety and nervous, the slightest sound rouses them from their sleep. Long after my friends have gone home I am still awake and often I look up at the sky and watch the many stars that dot it and wonder what my life is all about. I did nothing but wake up in the morning, go to school and hang out with friends until the day turned to night and night turned to past midnight.

There seems to be an endless number of things to talk about when one is young never mind that they tend to keep repeating over and over and over. It's like a day that ends and starts and ends again. Like a procession of ants, one passing the other and on and on and on; the procession of ants keeps going on endlessly, tirelessly, mindlessly. I never wanted to sleep, too much activity going on in the mind; nothing great, nothing earth-shaking, just ordinary, simple stuff important only to myself.