November 6, 2007

I am in my 30s. If one were to take an average of roughly 365.25 days/year, and 1 night sleep/day, it works out that I’ve slept well over 10,000 nights in my life. And—if I’m to be honest—about 8,000 days, too.

In those nights, for all I know, I’ve dreamed for all of them. For the most part, I sleep adequately, meaning that it’s pretty much a certainty that I’ve had tens of thousands of dreams; every one of which I’ve blissfully forgotten. I’ve never remembered a dream. For me, sleep is a fantastically perfunctory experience; I feel tired at night, I close my eyes, and a few seconds later,  I open them again and it’s morning. Job done.

That is until this week. I have recently spent two awful nights, where sleep goes on for hours, accompanied by the awful ramblings of my subconscious. During my waking hours, I’m constantly harassed by the incessant ramblings of my conscious thoughts. Imagine my surprise to find out that my subconscious is orders of magnitude more inane, irrelevant and unpleasant.

How do people put up with this every night? It’s dreadful.


There’s a pretty good chance I never was. But there were times when — in the right light, and with just the right amount of self-delusion — I could convince myself that I was a member of the urban cognoscenti. I do — after all — have white headphones. I hear they’re all the rage.

The shuffle mode on a iPod is a wonderful thing. There are times when I feel it knows what mood I’m in, and tries to help out.  If I’m a bit down on the train in to work, it will pick me up, dust me down, give me a pat on the back, and suddenly everything’s okay again.

But there are also times it opts for the plain out-and-out mockery . Yesterday, who found himself warbling through aforementioned headphones? Kenny Rogers. Kenny Rogers! How in the name of all that is holy did that end up on there? I know for a fact that I’m the only person who marshals my iTunes, so at some point I must have put it on there myself. I may have been having a bit of a Big Lebowski moment, but still. I thought it was a mere stumble in my casual stroll through coolness.

But then my iPod followed it with this. Gah! Who sets out to poison my auditory wellbeing with this tripe? All I know is that whoever it is, is by no means cool.  And therefore cannot be me. I hope.