Fleeting thoughts of a preacher who suffers from sleep
I’m preachy, pretty preachy (if that is a fact that I am allowed to preach).
Preach, preach, preach is what I find I can do best. I preach for my mosque and my friends and in ordinary conversations with ordinary folk. I preach to myself when my fists are tight and my face is wet before a cracked mirror. Everyone can speak but few can really preach. I orate and berate and use big, bold words that can entrance all no matter how small the audience because often, my voice is larger than their scepticism. I preach because it keeps me sane, though others need a little preaching to keep themselves sane and it’s quite alright to feel that way because I do too.
“I feel that pain, I know those feelings” and because I say I do, its easier for them to listen and less painless for me to preach it. Preaching is part of my passing. It isn’t particularly wonderful nor wonderless but I get others to wonder at it and in some tangle of ways I can find my bliss. Though if I’m being frank, it is most difficult to preach when I sleep for then I am quiet and so is my conviction.
I wake up and I remember parts of my preachless sleep as fragments and I’m not able to put them together with the exact precision with which I am able to vocally emit the things I posit as I stand in my white finery, kippah upon my head, by thick books, surrounded by lingams placed in a comfy altar. Or worse, I don’t dream what I preach. A part of my mind is not as preachy as I believed and how can that be?
They come in masses or one at a time but nevertheless, they come looking and I come receiving. Yet I wonder, in the few minutes before which the gates close before my night sight, if ever a thought passes through their mind that I possess a part that is not completely sure, regardless of the state of consciousness. I have a capacity to wonder. “Now, now”, I tell myself, sitting up and waiting for Surya to lighten the skies, “All shall be well come Sunday morning”.
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