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Best part of an evening for me is that there is a bed to sleep on at the end.

I know my will power is such that I need not command each night: Let there be sleep!’ Getting between the sheets is enough. I keep as with all creatures under the Nature’s sway its rule; I cannot escape bio-rhythm that makes mere routine of bedtime. Be that as it may,the routine has made claim or my will has a preference holds no meaning.
What I know is that there are some events happening below threshold level which is at cellular level, for my rational mind to grasp fully. But its efficiency I must admit at any rate allows me to focus on matters that my corporal body can adequately handle. I do have an office space. Is it a hole in the wall of universe or a negative space as the hole of a doughnut I cannot say. Unknown to me throughout the night my central archive systems are busy rearranging and fixing, labelling, retrieving lost files. This is where my memory is fixed. All roads lead to Rome. So do all the cables, filaments, streams of consciousness hanging from the beams and touch the floorboards that is on Time-Space coordinates. No wonder I know there is always something remarkable about my memory. It carries the distilled flavors of Time and Space and I can for the lack of adequate vocabulary merely label it as Consciousness.
More experience I have acquired I am more than convinced that memory is made up of discrete packets of information held in the hollows of Consciousness as honey in a comb.
Memory thus brings faith of my fathers and cultural milieu of lives lived in the past potent forces to work with. Thus when I who was born and brought up in India most of my life spend quarter of a century in a work that is hatched elsewhere I know why. My attitudes and my faith in my own memory makes me appreciate Omar Khayyam better. Such Consciousness that works on my memory may present many options and my preferences map course of my future that is all.
Sleep signifies an unconscious state in contrast with the wakeful state. Night is often used by poets as metaphor for death. Sleep is a realm where for a Christian is more than nature’s cure for human existence but a sign of hope. It is resurrective power that raised Jesus from death signifying hope, nothing less. What shall we make of insomnia then? I presume value of it as natural as skepticism that can rack a good Christian at times.
benny

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A Dream By Half©

There was a scholar in Aleppo who was ridiculed by his neighbors. They
were mostly artisans or traders who traded in useful goods and they faulted him “Why study dreams or speak with spirits of the dead?” they asked him.
“I study dreams because I dream myself.” The scholar defended himself. “What about speaking with the spirits of the dead?” “Perhaps I might learn something from my ancestors.” His neighbors snorted at his pigheadedness and left him alone.
A few weeks later the scholar had a dream in which his ancestor visited him and asked, ‘What are you doing with my wealth?’ “ Your wealth? Will you speak plainly?”
‘I had left all my wealth, fearing that my enemies were after me, at the bottom of a dry well behind the house.’ His ancestor described the exact spot and what to look for. Next day the scholar went down into the well and discovered the treasure. But the news of his find got around. It reached the ears of the sultan. The sultan immediately confiscated the treasure trove according to the law of the land. The scholar was at least thankful to the sultan that his life was spared. What was more, a royal pension allowed him to pursue his scholarly interests.
A few months later he had another dream in which his ancestor appeared again to ask the whereabouts of his wealth. ‘You were right grandfather. Your enemies finally got around to it by legal means.’
A dream is left handed version of reality. Only trouble is that you need to let reason rearrange it.If it has not happened as foreseen your rational mind has still an escape clause that it went wrong only as far as sleep had a hand in it.
benny

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Here is a Puzzling Thought
Rapid eye movement sleep (REM sleep) is a normal stage of sleep characterized by the random movement of the eyes. If we are asleep why move eyes at all? Perhaps the answer may lie in the manner we explain the nature of consciousness. During REM, the activity of the brain’s neurons is quite similar to that during waking hours; for this reason, the REM-sleep stage may be called paradoxical sleep. Here we have consciousness of the wakeful state and a ‘virtual’ consciousness of the sleep phase. Physiology shows same pattern of neurons sent by the brain.
In the Cosmic Mind within the Golden Pagoda dreams are like the scum that flows along the streaming of Consciousness of the Cosmic Mind. Bizarre shapes clocks without hands and slicing of sausages, or falling of tooth are all Nature’s way of interpreting the Mind for the individual. In similar fashion prophets see visions and the individuals consult those whom they think are gifted to interpret dreams.
benny

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Sleep

As a child I thought sleep was glorious.  I still think so. One would think certain habits like hitting the sack at a regular time or waking up by break of dawn would pall with passage of time. No. Man goes to sleep like a beggar with his worn out nerves and thoughts soiled by activities of the day. Even a saint is somewhat dented by it. I go to bed poor but wake up rich, feeling a power that I never thought possible. Every time. Over a cup of coffee when I have the whole world all to myself I command it to silence. My power is such even a cock crowing from a barn nearby cannot annoy me. With all that power at my command what I do? Like a beggar I polish my ivories that are ready to drop off,  clear the nasal passages that are chokeful of phlegm and drag about  my bones almost breaking apart,-osteoporosis sounds solid uh?don’t you believe it!, and make water. Indignities heaped over me by day do not end there. I am an unmitigated fool to attend to great many silliness of not my making.  Come day my age shows its unseemly, sordid side. Only company of people, those who make much of me can make me survive till I once again go to bed. Asleep I do not need the world or its uses. Even the one who warms the cockles of my heart is left out. Sleep, it is too potent to be shared with anyone.

Sleep is where I come to my proper estate. The whole universe and even God, host of angels belong to me, me alone. With such company who can tell me I am a nobody?

benny

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