I am like a prisoner who happens on enjoy an imaginary freedom in his dreams and who subsequently begins to suspect that he is asleep and, afraid of being awakened, conspires silently with his agreeable illusions.

We love repose of mind so well, that we are arrested by anything which has even the appearance of truth; and so we fall asleep on clouds.

Like a prisoner who dreams that he is free, starts to
suspect that it is merely a dream, and wants to go on
dreaming rather than waking up, so I am content to
slide back into my old opinions; I fear being shaken out
of them because I am afraid that my peaceful sleep may
be followed by hard labour when I wake, and that I
shall have to struggle not in the light but in the
imprisoning darkness of the problems I have raised.

I fear being shaken out of them because I am afraid that my peaceful sleep may be followed by hard labour when I wake, and that I shall have to struggle not in the light but in the imprisoning darkness of the problems I have raised.

But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.

I am living in a nightmare, from which from time to time I wake in sleep.

We want our freedom; we want to be ourselves, but we are also afraid to be by ourselves.

They had evidently been here all night and all the forenoon, afraid to go out to feed. Having escaped restraint, they were, like some people we know of, afraid of their freedom, did not know what to do with it, and seemed glad to get back into the old familiar bondage.

I fear freedom. I, above all, fear the freedom that is above all feardom.

Our very worries become our comfort zone. We hide in them.

And I found myself falling off asleep, because in that half-awake state, one’s sensibilities are blunted and happiness can still hover nearby...

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

If I could drown in sleep as I drown in fear I would be no longer alive.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty — they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars — they are at peace. In the midst of battles, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death.