A short account of a sleepy day

Last weekend, I was reading The Poacher, a short story by Ursula Le Guin, in which a peasant boy, after persistently cutting through a hedge of brambles for two years, discovers an enchanted kingdom (sleeping beauty universe) where he finds everyone asleep. By some strange co-incidence, an intense sleep took over me the same afternoon after which I woke up in the evening around sunset. When I woke up, a strange but comforting melancholy took over me, like an aching sweet sound of violin, like the feeling when you finish a good book, like how it felt on the last day of the school (which honestly I don’t remember in its entirety but can imagine how it must have felt), like watching the flock of birds fly into the horizon, like a distant ringing of a temple bell, like listening to Jane Austenesque soundtracks, like nostalgia… and at this point no more analogies are coming to my mind. Perhaps it was just a case of sleep inertia, which is caused by not having a full cycle of sleep. Whatever it was, that bewildered state of mind at least got me to write something here after almost two years of little or no writing. Later that day, in the night while reading The Wide Window, that same intense sleep took over me again while I was looking down at Lake Lachrymose through the eyes of Baudelaire children.