On the Nature of Sleep

My dearest Ida,

I am Alyosha; I introduce myself anew in case you have rightfully forgotten.

I reach out to you despite all, because, in my growing distress, I almost reached the heart of a matter that seemed important to you, in those days. Once, when we were bundled up in intimacy’s warmth in the dead of winter, conversing deep into the night, you mused, then asked whether I have a private theory, some inkling, regarding the nature of this world, this life, and existence at large. I still recall how, on the fourth floor of Kammenstraat 65, your face soured and retreated in disappointment when I expressed my genuine sense of being at a loss—that deflating lack of theory. At that point in time, enthralled as I was by you, grand matters of existence were of little import. Now, after all we had been through, as I write this, I feel as though with a few more moments’ thought, I will arrive at a truth—perhaps the truth—that explains why on some nights and mornings (even after a midday nap) we are assailed by a most bone-chilling sensation—deep-seated, aching illness. Please accept it, in lieu of all that I failed to grant.

My current estimation is as follows: when I sleep, I do so not on a mere mattress. I have come to understand that I sleep on—rather, cling to—a magnificent, gargantuan being. That much I am convinced of for now. I cannot yet ascertain its exact size, though the word planetary comes to mind. Please, fear not. I anticipate your distress as you read this. I was once an imperfect keeper of your fears. I failed plenty, betrayed plenty. But this train of intuition does not lead to terror. At least, I do not think it does. To think that my entire life I have been under a false impression about the nature of sleep. Our ache, which becomes more pronounced as we age, is neither sourceless anomaly nor bodily banality.

Allow me to elaborate. When I lie down, if some instinct in me remembers, I use something akin to bed sheets as a barrier—however meager—between myself and this grand It. In my youth, my mother would always admonish me if she walked by my room and saw me sleeping on an uncovered mattress. I understand why. She must have known, or sensed, as all those driven by love do, that to sleep unguarded against It is somehow wrong. Wrong—or perhaps dangerous. For on nights of degradation and misery, when I forget to lay insulating bedding between myself and whatever It is—not mere sheets, not a mattress—I do suffer consequences. I believe you do, too, my irretrievable dearest. So, when we fail to protect ourselves and dampen the ill effect, something terrible trembles through to us. Sometimes no precaution matters. It is no fault of our own. Perhaps it is obvious by now. The danger lies in raw contact. Our skin against Its dark, ruby flesh—yes, my instinct tells me so. Or is it indigo? Hard to tell, let alone define with certainty. Our relationship to It is painful for us both. I admit I know not how It feels—whether It feels at all—but it cannot be pleasant for It to bear our multitudes, this cumulative weight.

The next ill effect we suffer, on some occasions (perhaps it is imperceptibly always) concerns oceanic tremors—those rumbles in the deep. They come from the depths of It. The leviathan magnitude of the seismic activity is what reveals the true scale of the being we commune with in sleep. These tremors are a key aspect of the illness we suffer more acutely as we age. We all do, to varying degrees. Come to think of it, my very first pang of awareness was around four or five years of age. A mere child. I must have contracted it then through initial exposure, falling asleep on the floor, unattended, at play. Or, indeed, the condition is intrinsic.

Whatever that may be, if I were not already haunted—perhaps have always been—I am now doubly so; it is assured. Each person must wrestle with It, through increasing difficulty. The older we get, the lonelier we are. Various factors thin the protective membrane that dulls us to the truth. Those with sensitivity—the young, the old, even those bolstered by love—are at heightened risk. That risk is what could, in turn, alert a person to the true nature of sleep, and nudge them down this path I hesitantly walk now. It is likely that, due to my sleeping alone as of late and lack of the bulwark of love, I am more attuned—more vulnerable—to perceiving It.

Please forgive the abrupt shift in the letter. I grew weary and abandoned my train of thought to doze off. I now emerge from the tenuous grasp of sleep, and I am inconsolable. I must record the truth I have just witnessed, however hazy my recollection. I attempt to reach consolation in this truth, however feeble. I only wonder how I did not intuit it sooner. Did you, my dearest, already know?

You see, it is a Heart we sleep on—our cor mundi. In our sleep we lie upon its dark surface, against muscle, vein, and curve, and it is painful for all involved. I still see it now, when I briefly close my eyes. O, how terribly it beats. The pain is beyond anything we can measure, and this fact keeps comprehension beyond our reach. We only ever feel whatever remains once the pain has passed—the dull ache, faint traces. The Heart’s tremors, or rather, Heartbeats, stir and set our very souls rattling in their bodily cages. This rattle, I believe, is transmitted to our submerged consciousness as a high, thin note signifying the unassailable certainty of mortality, finitude, and the grand farewell to all things. It is then, when our membrane is not thick or coarse enough, when our sentiments are permeable due to some lack or wound, that we lie on this Heart direct and defenseless, and receive the full brunt of Its force. In turn, through Its flesh, Its shadowy chambers, the collective din of our multitudes reverberates as a sonic resonance, and becomes amplified deep within that cavernous space, like a choir expressing inexpressible sorrows. These myriad cries are thus synchronized, harmonized, and in turn emerge as the very Heartbeats I speak of—those selfsame tremors. If mortality had a sound… Well, it does. Cor mundi beats thusly.

And so, born of It, we live out our lives on Its vast cardiac planes. At this stage, I know not whether at life’s conclusion we become submerged, returning to its red, intracardiac streams when the membrane gives way, or simply fall away in a perpetual shedding as autumnal leaves. Perhaps there is more to it, more Hearts, but I am now feverish, expression recedes from me, and all I want is to weep.

In conclusion, I can only leave you with these words: It is a magnificent, colossal Heart we live on. We commune in sleep. In my dreams, I allow my hand to rest on Its tender surface. I believe It grieves us—always.

Whether all of this is a mere distraction from how I grieve you, my dearest, my girl, and how ardently I have loved you, I simply do not know. Would that love had been enough.

Sincerely, futilely, wretchedly yours. In beating sorrow and purest grief.

Alyosha, your дружок