Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Week 12

The Uncounted Counting Sheep

Let us say that a rather tired person has just lay their head down to sleep after an exhausting day at work.
Indeed, let us suggest that the tired person, -a man, say- despite his utter tiredness, still cannot find himself contented to find the peaceful rest of the sleep he desires. What can he do then?
Ah yes, the usual methods start to take place. Change positions maybe; or clear the mind with meditation. But if this fellow is rather old-fashioned, he'd do what his forefathers had been doing for years. Count sheep.
This is where my platoon comes in to settle the problem. My army. My ...flock.
Wherever lies someone in the toil of insomnia, we'll be there,in their mind's eye trying our best. He'll begin to count us, jumping over a fence. one, two, three. These are the most famous and popular of the sheep. The first ten are legendary. Then the next until twenty, then to thirty, and even to one hundred. These sheep are well known. But past that are the bundle that seem to be more and more destitute as the line and number size increases. we are there, the rarely called to upon. Past 300, we are scarcely known at all. Ghosts of the possible sheep that could have jumped and been counted; if someone ever managed to count that far. But at all the way at number one thousand, the last of the sheep, I am forgotten.
But I watch my fellows leap on cheerfully, in whatever imagination they are conjured into. Sometimes they're pink, or black, or classic white; realistic or comic, jumping over gates, or rocks, or fences; however the sleeper wants them to look. They'll jump and be counted.
Someday I'll be with them, before the tradition dies out. I will be counted. I will get my chance to be a strange color; to leap with all my might; to be the last one counted until one falls to slumber. One day. Until then, insomniacs of the world, keep counting!