I think there must be some correlation between how hard we sleep and how hard we fear death.

When life becomes too hard or stressful, and we are overburdened by its passing, we find ourselves laying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in abject terror as nothing seems to relax the mind or calm the body.

Or when guilt and shame make us fear an end before we can right our wrongs, the whimper of the wind may seem a shrill scream determined to jerk the offender from their respite.

The hesitant tapping of a spring sprinkle smashes through the unconscious demanding attention and pulling those with a sense of duty, to awareness, eyes bolting open with shock.

The young and old, for different reasons, ignore the call. The young, too innocent to fear the inevitable end, sleep often soundlessly and restlessly, looking like Angels and fearing not their company.

The old, perhaps resigned or finished with their Earthly business, spend enough time awake, but when they finally sleep it is deep and unrelenting until they wake.

I am pleasured with the deep seated snoring that often startles those who sleep with me. I hope they are not too agitated by my confession of freedom. Unresisting the inevitable has shuffled off the cause for fear, and I gladly grind out my bravery each night, to the chagrin of those still staring at darkened doorways, and cringing at crickets.