The Sleep God is all powerful. He enjoys what he does. Waking people, sending them off to sleep. It’s a game. He giggles. He guffaws. He flicks his hand and a child falls sleep. He doesn’t need to flick, but enjoys the theatricality of if. Sometimes he makes sound effects, also unnecessary, but enjoyable. Wah wah wah waaaaah, as he wakes the old man up for the third time that night.
He doesn’t wake up parents. Kids do that. Damn good thing. He doesn’t have to do everything himself.
Why does he so enjoy waking up old people? He doesn’t know, but it’s sooooo satisfying. As if he’s created something. A painting. A symphony. A giant, god-awful mess. Giggle. Guffaw.
The Sleep God doesn’t sleep. He’s a god. Just as a human doesn’t feel deprived of wriggling on the dirt, having evolved past the worm stage, the Sleep God doesn’t feel deprived. Although a god doesn’t evolve. He has always been a god. But mortals need ridiculous metaphors to understand anything.
The Sleep God wakes a woman up. The woman tries to sink back into her dreams, but they were tediously unpleasant, about trying to find her car; each time she thought she’d found it, it was the wrong make or model. The dreams bored the Sleep God. So much repetitive angst. Just as good a reason as any to wake her up. Though the Sleep God doesn’t need a reason.
The Sleep God is weary of explaining himself. In the sense of annoyed, not tired. He doesn’t get tired. He thought he’d made that clear. Giggle. Guffaw. Flick.
Photo: Nomao Saeki