Wednesday, March 07, 2007


One of life's mini-supreme pleasures (MSP) is to emerge in fragments from the dreamy depths on a cold morning and, as the who-you-are falls slowly into place enough to realize at the very edge of consciousness that you don't have to go to work today - that this is one of your days off - the corpus thereof, eyes unopened and smiling contentedly at the delightful syrupyness of reality, pulls the covers about the toasty neck and begins to emit a soft, dozing sound, much like the one that issues from the moss-lined den of a bear beneath virgin mounds of snow.

I got to partake of this particular MSP myself this morning, having during the night's deep sleep forgotten completely who I was until the sergeant we all carry in the barracks suddenly gave the order to hit the deck and get to work, but the sergeant is unaware of actual realities, so as soon as the individual known in the waking world as yours truly had reassembled to a sufficient level from the self-y bits and pieces scattered like crumbs along the trail of dreams, as Commander of this operation I countermanded the order and, smiling contentedly at the syrupyness of reality, resumed my mission.

Dedication is the price of victory.

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