the Fall of Middle Age

I think of Hemingway's "Three Day Blow." I don't know if it is appropriate; I read it many, many years ago. The winds whip with a florish around the house and the rain comes down in sheets. There is a fire, now glowing red with coals as it is time for bed, the midnight hour. I have not been drinking bourbon or whiskey, but a mild white wine; potable, buvable, mediocre, no better. The dogs sleep in their places near the fire, waiting for me to brush my teeth and invite them to my bed. I welcome their company on nights like this, as they do my own. I am the alpha animal; they think I am a dog, or that they are human: either way, it works so long as I agree. There are no lights nearby, no neighbors; there is nothing nor nobody to intrude upon our world, except for fatigue. Sleep, Lethe, forgetfulness. I wonder now, still young enough and healthy, how I can give up even one minute to sleep, when I know how, years down the line, I would pay so dearly to have this time and energy again. I would sell my soul, if I thought I had one. Is this the time to pull an all nighter, to just say I only live once and I must push, exhaust myself because I can? I think, not this night, like many other nights, yet special. The lull and warmth of sleep beckons. I need to dream and wake, hopefully refreshed, to confront the morrow, another day.