Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all

Host: The night was slowly descending over the city, wrapping every street in a veil of amber fog and neon haze. A coffee shop, half-forgotten between glass buildings, pulsed with the soft hum of jazz and the click of an old espresso machine. Through the window, rain tapped like a measured heartbeat, rhythmic and tender.

At a corner table, Jack sat, his coat still damp, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of light on his cup. Jeeny was across from him, her hands clasped around a mug, steam rising like a small ghost between them. There was a quietness, almost sacred, like the moment before confession.

Host: They had not spoken for a while. Outside, the world moved, cars hissed, and footsteps splashed through puddles. Inside, only their breathing filled the space — two souls balancing between thought and fatigue.

Jeeny: “You know, Nietzsche once said, ‘Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day.’”
She smiled faintly, the words hovering like a mystery between them. “I’ve been thinking about that lately. About how even rest demands its own discipline.”

Jack: “Ah, Nietzsche.” His voice was low, with that edge of dry amusement. “The man who turned exhaustion into philosophy. I think he meant that sleep, like peace, isn’t something you just fall into. It’s earned. You have to fight through the noise, the day’s battles, to deserve it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he meant something deeper — that to truly sleep, you must first be awake. Awake to your life, your choices, your pain. Most people just drift, half-asleep even while they’re awake.”

Host: The light flickered, as if agreeing with her. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, and the reflection of its headlights slid across the table, painting them both in brief flashes of gold and shadow.

Jack: “Awake, huh?” He leaned back, exhaling smoke from a half-burned cigarette. “You make it sound poetic, but have you tried staying truly awake in this world? People aren’t asleep, Jeeny — they’re just tired. Bills, screens, wars, deadlines — we’re drowning in wakefulness. What they need isn’t more ‘awareness,’ they need escape.”

Jeeny: “And yet that’s the problem, isn’t it? We run from awareness, call it tiredness. We let noise become our blanket, our excuse. Nietzsche saw that. He knew that to rest, truly rest, your mind must first have lived fully, thought deeply, felt everything.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat that wouldn’t stop. The café seemed smaller now — a world of coffee, smoke, and confession.

Jack: “You talk like awareness is some holy state. But tell me, Jeeny, how does being ‘awake’ help when the world burns around you? You think the man working three jobs should be philosophically alert before he sleeps? No — he deserves forgetfulness, not enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he’s dying inside, Jack. Because he’s forgotten himself. We treat sleep as escape, not healing. But Nietzsche wasn’t romanticizing fatigue. He was reminding us — sleep comes as a reward for those who’ve earned their rest by living consciously, not by numbing themselves.”

Host: The steam between them thinned, then rose again, as if it too breathed. Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, then back at her. The silence that followed was thick, almost alive.

Jack: “You know who else talked about ‘earning rest’? The factory workers in the Industrial Revolution. They’d work sixteen hours a day and still be told that sleep was a privilege of the virtuous. That kind of talk — your kind of talk — kept them docile. Philosophy as a lullaby for the oppressed.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what I’m saying, Jack.” Her voice softened, but her eyes were fierce. “I’m not talking about submission. I’m talking about presence. Even those workers — they sang in the dark. They found meaning in rhythm, in song, in faith. That was their wakefulness. The body can be enslaved, but the spirit must stay awake.”

Host: The cigarette smoke spiraled, curling into the dim ceiling lights. Jack’s gaze hardened, but his shoulders drooped, betraying fatigue. There was a tension, like the edge of a storm, between surrender and conviction.

Jack: “And what about you, Jeeny? You stay up all night thinking, reading, feeling everything. You call it being awake, I call it torture. You ever think that Nietzsche was mocking himself when he said that? That he knew staying awake kills the soul faster than sleep ever could?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was mocking himself. But he was right to. We all fear our own depths. The moment we stop fighting to stay awake to them, we start decaying. It’s not about insomnia of the body, Jack — it’s about insomnia of the spirit. To feel, even when it hurts.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but it was not from weakness. It was the vibration of truth, raw and unpolished. Jack’s eyes softened, if only slightly.

Jack: “You sound like those monks in Tibet who meditate until they collapse. ‘Awake,’ but starving, dying of enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like the ones who sleep through life with their eyes open.”

Host: The room fell silent again. The rain softened to a drizzle. In the reflection of the window, they could see their own faces, side by side — two silhouettes, both tired, both searching.

Jack: “Maybe we’re both right. Maybe sleep and wakefulness aren’t enemies. Maybe they’re… partners. Like day and night — each one meaningless without the other.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” She nodded, her eyes shining with quiet warmth. “To stay awake all day is to live fully — so that when you finally close your eyes, it’s not to escape, but to return. Sleep becomes a kind of coming home.”

Host: Outside, the city lights flickered, and the pavement gleamed under the last threads of rain. The jazz music in the background shifted, soft, melancholic, like a curtain closing.

Jack: “You know, I used to think sleep was just a switch — on or off. Now it feels like… a mirror. Maybe that’s what Nietzsche meant. If your days are hollow, your nights are restless.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Restlessness is just truth trying to speak through the cracks. When we’ve lived honestly, even our dreams are at peace.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, catching the two figures in the window’s glow. Steam rising, light dimming, the world outside slowly returning to its pulse.

Jack: “Then I suppose I’ve got some waking to do.”

Jeeny: “And I some sleeping.”

Host: They laughed quietly, the sound small but real, like rain easing into silence. The night, too, seemed to breathe easier. Somewhere, a car horn faded, a door closed, a page turned.

The rain stopped completely.

Host: And as the city exhaled, Jack and Jeeny sat in that moment — awake, tired, and for the first time, at peace.