Years ago, someone sent me this poem.
I memorized it instantly, and it drifts through my mind from time to time.
“Sleep.
Those little slices of Death.
How I loathe them.”
When I first read these three little lines, I thought:
“Yes! I’m not alone! See? Someone else hates sleep, too! Someone else thinks that sleep is way too close to death! See? I’m not crazy!”
Then I saw the name of the poet:
Edgar Allen Poe
Damn
Why couldn’t it have been someone like Thoreau or Elizabeth Bishop or John Dryden? Poets who are known for their thoughtfulness, level-headedness, and logic. Poets whose thoughts and opinions are respected and admired.
Poe was brilliant, but he likely suffered from mental illness and addiction.
Not exactly the most reliable thinker.
Then again… I guess Poe wasn’t so crazy after all.
