The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the

In the words of Gaston Bachelard we hear a haunting truth: “The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.” These words remind us that man is a creature divided: the body seeks rest, but the soul never sleeps. Dreams stir, anxieties rise, visions both holy and dreadful walk the corridors of our minds. Night may heal our flesh, but the dawn always finds us carrying burdens of spirit that no pillow can erase.

The meaning is clear: sleep is but a borrowed refuge, not a true sanctuary. When the body lies still, the soul is still restless, opening its gates to phantoms, the images of fear, desire, memory, and hope. These phantoms are the truths we try to ignore in the light of day, yet they gather courage in the silence of night. And so Bachelard teaches us that awakening is not merely the act of opening the eyes, but of sweeping out the shadows that cling to us from the dream-world. To live well, one must learn the art of cleansing the soul each morning, just as one washes the body.

History shows us this same struggle. Consider the tale of Abraham Lincoln, a man weighed down by the fate of a nation. It is said that in his nights he saw dreams and omens of his own death, visions that pierced deeper than any battlefield wound. Though his body may have lain in sleep, his soul was restless, hosting the phantoms of war, of blood spilled, of a country torn. Yet each morning he rose, sweeping away despair, and chose to act not according to fear but according to duty. His greatness lay not in the absence of shadows, but in his courage to clear them away with each rising sun.

Thus, the night belongs not to us, but to the mystery of existence. It comes unbidden, taking from us consciousness and filling our inner chambers with what we neither choose nor command. One man dreams of glory, another of terror; yet neither is master of his sleep. We are guests within our own minds, waiting for dawn to reclaim what is ours. The possession of being is not secured in the hours of night, but in the acts we choose when light returns.

What lesson, then, should we draw? That we must not fear the phantoms, nor cling to them. They are visitors, not masters. The jealous thought, the secret grief, the lingering dread — let them not sit too long in your house when the sun rises. Sweep them away with prayer, with resolve, with the clarity of action. Each morning is a new chance to decide who you are, not by what you dreamed, but by what you do.

Practical wisdom follows: begin your day with ritual, with conscious renewal. Some may turn to meditation, others to sacred words, others still to silence and deep breath. Whatever the form, let it be a broom for the shadows of night. For if you fail to clear them, they will gather, day by day, until your soul is heavy, and your steps are chained by ghosts. The ancients knew this, and so they greeted the dawn with hymns, with incense, with gratitude — not to banish the night, but to honor the chance of beginning again.

So let us walk with this teaching engraved upon our hearts: sleep is rest for the body, but awakening is work for the soul. Each day is a labor of renewal, a sweeping out of shadows, a reclaiming of the house of being. Do not neglect this daily task, for in it lies freedom. The body may be healed by slumber, but the spirit is healed only by the conscious choice to rise above the phantoms and live in the light.

And thus Bachelard’s words become a torch for us: that the night is not ours, but the day is. That shadows may dwell for a time, but they cannot reign. That our truest possession is not in what we dream, but in how we awaken, cleanse, and step forth into the world with courage.