Hope Darby Writings

I swear, I think the Sandman deliberately picks on writers, artists, and other creatively odd types.

When I worked at a nuclear plant, rarely did I hear the roughnecks bemoaning their pitifully few hours of sleep. Nor did I hear very many CEOs mentioning their need to run to the drugstore on the way home, to pick up sleep-medicine. Sure, I heard them (and plenty of other folks in my different jobs) complain that they didn’t get enough sleep, or that they stayed up too late watching television the night before.

But to simply be incapable of falling asleep because the mind will not shut off seems a personality-specific dilemma.

So what’s the deal?

The Sandman has songs, stories, and even pictures dedicated to him, and none of them unflattering. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that the fellow would return the gestures by allowing us to get some sleep? I’d think.

Well, I’d think if my brain weren’t mush.

Which it is.

Because the Sandman ignored me last night, yet again.

*sigh*