I woke up today feeling like a zombie, my need for sleep unsated, my body aching, and red spots all over my body because I forgot to hang my mattresses under the sun when I arrived yesterday afternoon. Microscopic, creepy dust mites devoured my naked skin last night when I was too tired to care. And I am hungry; all my supplies gone when I had an all night pigging out on those instant stuff.
In an hour, I would be traveling back to the city with a week worth of clean shirts and jeans. The ‘unspectacular’ six-hour sleep I got is uncommensurate to the effort I had to go through carrying a big bag and being inside of an overstuffed public transportation for an hour of bumpy and dusty ride with the rest of the proletariat just to be here in Miagao. Just to have my needed peaceful night and not having it.
And so I’ll convince myself that I had a great night, that I was able to write and do important things (which I did not). It’s like having a so-so sex and telling myself over and over that it was the greatest I’ve had to keep myself from feeling bad for all the preparations I had to go through to get laid only to be disappointed.
It can be that aside from ability to utilize spoken and written language, this separates man from the rest of the animal kingdom: the ability to convince himself that things are not as bad as they feel or as they look to protect his vulnerable soul from being crushed by reality.
And so I’ll go on convincing myself that I am rejuvenated by that satisfying sleep; I was able to come up with writings that future generations will include on their list of canons, and my body does not feel itchy. Also, I am not starving.