Bookmark #377

I think I should sleep more. I should sleep for twelve, fifteen hours if possible. I know people who can manage this, but I was far too connected to the world. I took too much responsibility for what I did with the day. The roots of the game were entrenched and dug deep into me. With these words and the way I carried myself, I was just going to be a lousy player. Artists tend to act as some sort of digression from others, from society, as if the whole point of art was not to improve the world you lived in. All art was about change, but you could not change what you did not know. To know how little ordinary people want, to want it all and then reject it was art. You could not shorten this journey. You could not start with the rejection. There would be nothing to reject.

Coming to sleep, I feel that is the only time I am not worried about disappointing someone. For all hints of wisdom in these words I wrote, the terrible curse of never making the right choice hovered over me. If I laid in bed for an added hour, it was to avoid disappointing someone; even this would disappoint someone. The world runs on promises kept. No, not promises of forever, but little promises of yes, I will see you for coffee, and yes, the work will be done, and yes, I will handle the favour, and yes, the errand will be done, and yes, I will go to the bank, and yes, I will file my taxes, and yes, I will make time for you, and yes, I will listen when you want me to. This is the way. Regular people, like you and I, we did not have the luxury of breaking many of them.

Years of civilisation have solely depended upon promises being kept by us. To steal a moment of sleep in the sun and grass, or even your own bed, to make it easier, was the act of ultimate rebellion. I was about to commit it this evening. They would accuse me of high treason, and then they would forget. Too many promises were broken too often; people have promised forevers and then stolen them. Surely I can take an hour or two for myself.

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