Mourning Mornings

There is a heaviness to the transition into reality. Every morning feels not like pushing a rock off one's body, but like being forcefully dragged out from under one by your foot. The difference is in motivation. And then you are left with the will to do nothing, to find that escape once more. With the knowledge that you should not enter slumber once more, you lay there holding onto the covers for a semblance of security. For now, the world does not exist absolutely.
Schroedinger's cat, if it was aware of its own existence, would understand. Yet this understanding is not wholly complete.
If I may be so arrogant as to change the perspective to my own (the arrogance of third person only goes so far), I struggle to come to an acceptance of reality with the comfort of the dreamscape that I want to be smothered in. There is a balance of the two that hiding between the covers we are forced to be aware of. Both exist in one form or other, we throw ourselves completely into both, we have the ability to thrive in both. The problem stems in choice, in absolutism, in the terror of decision-making.
From undercover we must make an effort to exist. In limbo, as the bed is a symbol of, we must leave one state behind. This works both ways. Getting into bed is the travel into our fantastical surrealities. Getting out is the dragging into of the potential possiblities of past and future into the present. Real life in the present is only the balance between what happened and what may happen.
It is easier, I find, to sleep than to wake. What I mean to say is that it is more pleasurable to fall into a slumber than to step into the world.
This could be a simple case of my problematic feelings of the 'now', or it could be that sleep always offers something that reality cannot - a lightness of touch.
Oh what are you trying to say?
The author wants to acknowledge that he thinks. He wants to admit to having wakelessness, that sleep pulls him in and morning pummels him with the truth of himself. He wants to explore the heaviness of life and the lightness of sleep (through absoluteness of wake and the seeming quantum mechanics of dreamstate). He also wants to show that he doesn't know everything about all the terms and words he uses, he is grasping for straws, hoping to find one with the word 'sense' written down it, hoping to read it the right way and not throw it out because it says esnes.
He wants to complain about a lot of things but cannot truly allow himself to fall into that way, fearing the judge of ungratefulness will whack him with a stick or something, as he knows that everything is teaching everyone. Every moment is one of learning. Every pain, every smile, every moment in a while, it becomes something. Something to have had or to have not.
And where does this leave us? It leaves us talking, hopefully. Because the one thing that dreams will never win on is the other. You have yourself, sure, but your dream will never truly bring the stability of other people. They will dip in and out but never in the same way as reality can provide.
Oh there were too many things I wanted to fit into this.
But this is what came out, and I shall leave it at that.