My father always said never sleep with an angry mind. He would quote night after night, never to allow your head to touch pillows of duck-feather with words of vehemence and poison still resting on your tongue. Sleeping with an angry mind opened doors to many roots — dead roots — where the ash burned away from the scalp and rotting promises were left to populate in broken ditches.
He never believed that actions spoke louder than words. A profane statement repeated as though a calming mantra of thieves and liars, whose only punishment was the inability to believe sentiments due to the dexterity of their own silver tongue. Words were omnipotent — he would chant — they were the most powerful thing in the world if used correctly. And Truth more often than not was the hired bullet.
Frustration doesn’t ease in slumber but only intensifies — fixation lingers, hindering clarity. He would advise that our hearts are equally inclined to hate, as they are to love, but just as love can devour our hearts, hate will equally destroy us.
My father always said never sleep with an angry mind — for it is best to forgive their shortcomings before the Sandman pulls us away from the shore, as none of us truly know if we are to return.
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