Something deep in the core of my being yearns to sleep in a hammock. Not sleep in one on the front porch. Not sleep in one for one night. Not sleep in one during a camping trip. Sleep in one permanently (or as permanently as a hammock can get).
The freedom of swaying with the wind. The lack of anything underneath, perhaps for miles.
To me, the hammock represents, as Americans call it, a vacation: lounging out on the beach between two palm trees, sand washing up with the waves, a book in hand. The humble hammock can bring that vacation to everyday life, sans beach, palms, sand, and waves. The book can stay.
I don’t know if that’s really how a hammock feels. Actually, I’d bet it’s not how it feels. But I imagine it’s how it feels, to keep the stereotype going, and I want to try it to prove it one way or the other.
I mean who really says “core of my being” or “yearns to sleep in a hammock”?
