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Manish- Cycle of the Cycle

Every cycle has a rhythm to it, its own cycle. When I wake from a early morning nap (midnight - 7am) I usually start out a little tired, still wanting for sleep. That inevitably passes if I get up and start engaging my brain in something trivial like washing dishes or watching a tv show. Alertness follows for anywhere from 10 minutes to 3 hours. Eventually it comes back down, leading me back to sleep.

The sleep has its own cycle, from lying down to mental chatter, to unknowingly falling asleep, to deep dreaming, to non-REM unconsciousness, to gentle awakening. An alarm clock can interrupt anywhere in the middle of this, dictating the flow of the next waking cycle.

With the knowing that the tired feeling will pass if I just start moving, I now feel it's much easier to get up. I avoid productive work until the tired feeling is gone and replaced with alertness.

Going to sleep a lot and rejoin the land of the living tomorrow.

On SEBASTIAN MARSHALL

Sleep at 3:30AM, wake at 6:50AM, business call to States at 7AM. Groggy, but good call. Very solid planning.

Business research, tech stuff in the morning. Editing book. Get tired. Can't be tired. Go for run. Eat curry, bread, salad, fruit juice, iced tea. Wake up. Book is edited. Book is edited? Book is edited! Book is edited.

Why do I have 21 emails in my box? I cleared it two days ago, and I've been answering at least half the incoming email. Note: clear inbox after morning routine and most important thing tomorrow.

Happy. Tired. I wish I was strong enough to sleep 3.5 hours per night and do high level output without crashing, but I crash now. Answer emails tomorrow. I hate sleeping. Tired. Happy.

To be or not to be– that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep No more – and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to – ‘tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th’ oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered.

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