Sleep Is Death Lite
Fear and trembling atop the raised platform
There's no way to get around it: sleep is creepy. It's not
something I talk about in mixed company (because I'm seemingly
alone in my belief), but I've always felt this way. I remember
being a kid and becoming slightly uncomfortable whenever they
showed people in bed on Little House on the Prairie,
preparing to turn themselves over to an eight-hour minicoma. I'm
sorry, but the widely accepted ritual of climbing atop an elevated
platform and assuming a state of insectlike dormancy is disturbing
The fact that otherwise bright and energetic people willingly
allow themselves to become drooling vegetables at the end of each
day feels like a failure. We, as superior animals, should be above
such base requirements by now. Every night I climb aboard my raised
coma platform, I sigh with resignation, feeling like a monkey in
Have you ever seen a person sleeping? We look like idiots. As I
put a fresh pillowcase on my pillow, I see the stains there,
created by excess saliva that rolled out of my mouth during my
nightly transformation into a lobotomized fool, and I feel shame.
This is no way to live, people.
In addition to all the time wasted to voluntary loss of
consciousness, I worry that one of these days I'll get in too deep
and won't be able to pull out the other side. Sleep is Death Lite,
and playing chicken with the grim reaper is, I think, ill-advised.
Yet we do it every day. So far I've won every contest, but the odds
keep getting longer and longer. It's Russian roulette beneath a
fluffy comforter. Tonight could very well be the night that I'm
drawn to the light.
And the fact that sleep is not only accepted by society, but
celebrated too-well, that concerns me. We should be working at
correcting this abnormality. Instead, we build homes equipped with
special rooms (chambers) in which to assume our freakish science
fiction states of suspended animation, complete with fancy
hand-carved hibernation stands. We also frequent places of
business, like Bed, Bath and Beyond, where one can purchase myriad
frilly, scented dormancy supplies. If we had a grotesque dangling
mole on our faces, we'd have it removed, not drive across town to
purchase an imported mole cozy.