On naps

Naps are like Taylor Swift. Everybody likes them but we believe we have to pretend we don’t.

One layer below, naps are like Miley Cyrus. They are actually better for us than we are willing to admit.

Naps are a wonderfully static acts of rebellion.

A tiny horizontal coup. Velvet revolution of the eyelids.

They are freedom that doesn’t demand anything.

Except when the sofa calls you in the middle of the workday after you’ve loaded yourself with carb-heavy lunch, coffee and a chocolate bar. And it’s your second week on the job.

And the offices are mostly empty but not empty enough to make it safe.

And now you have to pretend that you don’t want to utilize the so heavily underutilized and cushy parts of the office for your napping purposes.

Suddenly, you’re your own worst enemy. Not napping, just thinking about utilization. How awful.

If only for a little while you could not be a business man but an artist instead. Performing your most relaxing piece.

Because if the beauty is in the eye of the beholder and no one really sees you napping, aren’t your two tired eyes the sole judges of the beauty in this installation?

Unless someone else sees you and suddenly you’re ugly. Corporate judges you.

Surely, spending your cosmically (and gastricly) designated nap time at the desk, pretending to be working — and typing this — is a lot better look for you, you sleepy coward.

Revolution next time.