Sleep is war.

                  The hour of dormition nears. Jaw-endangering yawns. A glance at the clock. What tricks has our tormenter cooked up tonight? I fortify myself with cognac and a cookie, Jane with a pill. We feign insouciance about the outcome – what will be will be – but no one’s fooled. Dread of insomnia enforces its authority. What words will usher us out? (Jane risks doomscrolling, but not I: I’ve worked hard to evict that mephitis from my mind.) My preferred words are hard but not too hard, good but not too good: my brain isn’t up to straining, and extreme excellence might excite me to extolling.

                 Lights out, cheek on pillow, good luck!

                  Arthritic joints ache as they hadn’t waking – why is that? An intolerable itch in my left big toe. Plans for tomorrow – what have I forgotten? A wrong word in a missive – will I remember or should I switch on the light to fix it? What scurrilities is the monster rage-tweeting in his flatulated solitude? Gut gurgling. Ignore! Think Schubert, Handel, any of Hamlet’s soliloquies. Enter ghostly accusers, former friends, the dead whom I neglected to bid farewell. (I used to dodge deathbeds; no longer, for there’s no rinsing the shame.) Trot out the old sleep quotes – why not? – anything to divert attention. Knitting the raveled sleeve of care. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. O, sleep, why dost thou leave me? (Handel, Semele, gorgeous)

                  This is ridiculous!

                  At some instant, which one never recalls, silence muffles noise. Absorbed in one’s dream-movie, one ceases to be. I enjoy being but it can be hard. Death is often likened to sleep. Sounds heavenly to me.

                  Few frays are as fraught or fascinating as bedtime, but its depiction is infrequent. That’s because a) the scene is almost impossibly complex (like a Hieronymus Bosch dreamscape), b) our childish weakness humiliates, and c) it’s boring. The first words Jane and I exchange each morning are, “How did you sleep?” to which our answer is invariably “Fine,” which means either “Fine” or, more probably, “Don’t ask.”

                  No other creature, best we know, writhes this way. Dog-pal Henry certainly doesn’t. He sleeps without effort in an eyeblink and wakes without reproach. His repose is aware and wary but serene. That’s because his consciousness is singular – no what-ifs or might-be’s, no remorse – so nothing can be worse than what is. Pain is a pain but so what, that’s how things are; death has no sting.

                  Humans are a mess of contradictions, conflicts, second thoughts. We’re always asking useless questions like “What’s success? What’s beautiful? What does it mean to be good?” Even saints are beset by shame.

                  Each copes with their confusion differently. Some deny it – what confusion? They’re happy as clams and know the score. Others bundle it away, like ratty childhood mementoes they can’t discard. Others bake a cake of their ache, to share with all. (That would be me.) Success in the coping game is a happy heart.

                  I panic about sleep because that’s where I write. In my career years, I could do my work exhausted, no big deal. Sitting through meetings neither requires nor repays mental exertion. If I haven’t slept, my writing’s crud if it comes at all. A bad night’s sleep dooms me to a day sprinkled with emergency naps. If you find me dozing midday, it means I’m working. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

                  I love sleep, almost as much as I love Jane, Henry, you, words. About anyone who boasts about “getting by” on three hours’ sleep I’m deeply suspicious.