I still do believe that my father's drug, by bringing him closer to real sleep, brought him closer to death, and that this closeness allowed death to bleed into my waking life. It doesn't matter if what I saw was real in the supernatural sense, and I don't claim to have a better grasp on my own life because of it. Cigarettes, Benadryl, booze, and my phone are still the only ways I can get to sleep, and I remain as slavishly dependent upon artificial tranquilizers for comfort as any child with his favorite blanket. What matters is the telling of this sleep story. What matters is that I don't keep what I saw to myself and pridefully let the strain of keeping it a secret rot my insides and emaciate my conscience until I start denying that it ever happened. What matters is that we take pride in our collective heritage of insomnia, and recognize our resistance to sleep as an impulse against death and towards life, as if the history of every society's struggle against its own demise were being recapitulated every time we close our eyes. This is what distinguishes us from the birds and the cows that land and lay down in the face of extinction.
As I finish typing this story, there is a pleasant drowsiness tugging at my eyes. I hope that as I fall asleep tonight, no matter how drugged or drunk or distracted I am, I will try and feel myself sink into it, fighting all the time while knowing I am, like everyone, destined to lose. I hope my sleep is long and restoring, and that I lift myself up in the morning like a wiser, stronger generation, knowing the enemy better and ready to face it in the light of the new day.