Stuck between Sleep and Wakefulness

I slept early in anticipation of waking early in the morning.Turns out the tactic worked. Too well, actually.I did wake up early. Only it was a bit too early. Instead of 8am, I got up at 1:30am. So here I am, in the glowey light of my lamp, both of us smudged against the dark, wondering what to make of life. Perhaps this is how it feels when you get caught between two dimensions. A time warp. Its still so dark outside. I know, its supposed to be dark, but when one wakes up, one expects that no matter how dark it may be outside, it would still be lighter than the dark inside your room. I suppose that stands correct for when one wakes up at a decent hour. People like us, sleep evades us. We stand guilty for all of those "indecent" hours. There is much too much to think. Too many thoughts, twisting, and swirling and whirling their way into my insides. It isn't just the mind. These thoughts dance around the fire in my mind, until its hot enough to burn its way into the rest of me. So I sit here, on my bed, softly smouldering.
And when it isn't the thoughts, then its just the kind of animal that I am. This species(mine, and not mankind in large, happy quantities), I've come to believe, does not sleep. Sitting in the sublimity of a moment, caught in the silence of the sky, too scared to speak. Sleep scares me sometimes. I'm afraid I may never wake up. And it isn't the death that scares me. Its the absolute oblivion to death that does. I want death to be a storm. Announced and trumpetted. And afterwards, I want to be forgotten. I do not want renditions of what or who I was. I do not want to live other people's versions of my life after death. When we die, we die. For those who love me, know that when I die, I am gone. Everything that is mine, my words, my music, my thoughts, they leave with me. After that, the memories you have are yours. What people say about me is theirs. I hope that you can spot the difference. I do not exist after my death. And thank goodness for that.
I'm beginning to see the surreality in this: writing about death in the middle of the night, stuck between wakefulness and the desire for oblivion. What is sleep, anyway? Relegion gives an elaborate explanation of how souls are lifted when we sleep and returned to us when we awaken. If I believed in a soul, I'd be angry at this rude violation of my privacy. My soul is mine. When I sleep, I do not give anybody license to pull me from me. If my soul existed, I'd hate to know that it's snatched away from me every night(while I sleep, no less), and put up somewhere with "other" souls(and I have no real desire to meet these "other" souls, I assure you), and then when its done being brainwashed and half-hypnotized, sent back to me. I think I'd much rather be left alone with my non-existing "soul". A strictly "don't-touch" policy.
For me, sleep is oblivion. A quick dose of hard core escapism. I never dream. My hours of oblivion are dreamless and snug. Somebody once said, "Ignorance is bliss". For species like myself, I'd contend that. I would however, change it to: "Oblivion is bliss." Knowing, and yet, not knowing. But then, I wouldn't want that bliss for too long. That's just crack. Or alcohol. Neither of which I appreciate too much.
I overslept 7 classes in a row for my European Intellectual History class. The guy still gave me an A+. I'm slightly miffed. So with regard to my criminal history of oversleeping, I asked my roommate and other friends down the hall to give me a wake up call in time for my plane to Canada. They all left yesterday, and are in various parts of America. In another 5 hours, I'll be getting a lot of phone calls. They tell me I'm a demon in the morning. I tell them never to take anything I say when they wake me up seriously because that's my "other" self speaking. A very mean, very rude, very scary "other" self. I hate being awoken. (To say the least).
I'm wondering at what I'm writing. Usually, what I post here is not this candid. I don't like posting candid, personal stuff for everybody on the entire freaking web to read. But I guess waking up at a weird hour, with fog in the mind, drunk on Orange juice, and Damien Rice on a cold windowsill, unleashes something. Not quite sure what. I don't know which one of "me" is real. But I'm beginning to understand that "real" doesn't matter. I am the measure of all things. I'll make what is "Real" real. And that is how we, on earth, differentiate from one man to the other. In the things that each of us chooses to make "real" for ourselves.

It seems that John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane" is the story of my life. In more ways than one.
"
All my bags are packed,
I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn
The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn
Already I'm so lonesome I could die
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go
'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again......."

Disclaimer: There is a difference in eternal alone-ness and living the moment and being happy. They can subsist. I live them both.