Season of sleep

We all know the four seasons. Spring, season of the lambs, newly born, a new life within a crisp, new year. Summer. season of the sun. Children's laughter floating like an angels voice in a slight, forgiving breeze, holding back the ferocious snaps of the suns unforgiving rays. Autumn. Season of the colours, mother nature's canvas, her creative time. And Winter: season of white. White snow, white coats, white bobble hats on cold, white faces. Mother nature's canvas wiped clean ready for a brand new year.
      However, there is one more. A secretive spy. An assassin sneaking up on every person in the depths of the night. Sleep. Season of sleep. The most powerful season of all yet probably the least well known. No-one can escape it's icy clutches, no-one can understand it's almost hypnotic influence, and yet it has a conscience. A mind. And a smart one at that. Creating never-ending swirls and blasts of colour. Images. Words. Creating stories and poems. The best painter, poet, writer of all time trapped like a caged animal in everyones mind. Never escaping. Never fighting. Everyone has it but still it has everyone. No-one knows it's name, no-ones ever asked yet it speaks to us through subliminal messages planted like deadly seeds in the very depths of our impossible puzzle of a brain. Does it wake? Does it sleep? Does it feed of our minds thoughts and ideas or is it a farmer? Planting those very ideas that we considered our own into our own minds? It has no limits. No boundaries. No sense of guilt, fear, sadness or any emotions that make us human yet it in it's form gives us the very human qualities it neither has nor wishes to receive. It's whole existance depends on us yet our life depends on it's existance too and it keeps our mind alive and working like a machine, a slave through thoughts and ideas and colours and patterns and numbers and words flowing like the words on this page.