A man goes to rest

He is tired the day has taken it all out of him. there is nothing that can be done. his eyes start to slid closed and the world starts to fade away. He stumbles threw the door to his room his short cut hair brushes the top of the door frame. The sensation is ignored. He shakes off the close that have been covered in the sweet and dirt of the days work. He tumbles into his big bed with his feet hanging off, longing for sleep's sweet embrace. Then it happens as it happens every night. The walls of his heart still contracting the same way that they did when he was standing. The thick muscular walls, made tougher than they should be by the man's size and the need to keep the blood flowing out of the legs, still pushing and pulling while the blood starts to flow on its own out of the lower parts of his body. His brain tastes the rich fullness of life giving fluid that it never gets so readily. The synapses start to fire rapidly. The man has visions and can see clearly what earlier was masked by clouds. the thoughts start to run out of control and the pressure of the blood seems to force open his eye lids. His thoughts drift from the mountains that he misses so much to the problem he is working on for his job. To the women that he has loved and the ones that he wishes to love. He thinks about his friends and his family. He thinks how much his body needs to sleep and he knows from countless nights of the same thing that it will take another hour to slow his mind enough for sleep to truly take hold. He thinks of his heart, knowing that it will beat fewer times than those of his friends. He knows that it will never last him until old age; not because he is unhealthy, or unfit but because he asks so much of that heart and knows that it is tiring. He wills his heart to slow down. he focuses on his breathing. The worries and troubles of the day fade into the back ground of smooth even deep breaths. The world slips into the an realm that is not even attached to the man but he becomes part of everything. He can feel that pulse of the fan above his bed and the clock over the oven switch from 2:13 to 2:14. He can feel the mouse in the living room scamper from the couch to the closet and the eyes of the snake in its habitat watching eagerly the little scampering of the creature safe on the other side of the glass. He can feel the people behind the next door breathing in there own beds. And the faint pressure that the pull moon puts on the cement of the sidewalk out side. He can feel the excitement of the bat as it wheels around the night looking for the last of the insects before it starts to move south to warmer winters. He can feel everything not because he is seeing it or hearing it. The man can feel all of these things because he is part of all of these things and they are all part of him. He is lucidly awake, in the world as if it were a dream but aware that it is all of his creation and he is simple a manifestation of the environment. He tries desperately to cling to this state. He tries to hold onto this peace and this understanding. But he can feel something else now. The sleep that drove him to his bed in such a clumsy state washes over him fully now. He is plunged into his own mind unaware that he is in his own mind.

When he wakes he remembers his thoughts about the women he loved and the women he wants to love, about his friends and family. About the events of the world. But his memory was not connected for the time that he was in the lucid world. A trick of the brain has made him forget his moment of enlightenment. There is only the sweet feeling all over his body that speak of a peace that he has never experienced. Never in his memory at least.