Since the beginning of time, conflict has been one of the prominent factors of human development. Battles between men, towns, and countries have shaped our world into what it is today. As in all types of conflict, there are definite achievements, and definite losses, which are the inspiration for and the consequences of combat on any level. There is no disputing the fact that conflict is painful, but there is uncertainty about which type of conflict brings the most disaster and reaps the most rewards. One particular type of conflict, which is always the most intriguing, is the one waged within ourselves. The war we fight every day, when the annoying buzz of the alarm shatters our peaceful slumber is the violent reminder that conflict will never go away. Like many others, each morning when I slip into consciousness, my battle begins. I struggle to pry myself away from the most alluring place known to man.

    I find it nearly impossible to leave such a soft and soothing place, especially when I know that the chilling, sharp air is waiting to strike on the other side of my blanket. The giant, marshmallow-like pillows seem stickier as my dreams crash to a halt, and as I reach to slam down on the snooze button, I can feel my down-filled cocoon grow tighter, denying my escape. As I feel myself sink deeper into my plush, independently coiled, orthopedic mattress, I see no point in resisting any longer. I give in to the force of the giant sandbags violently tugging at my eyelids, knowing that regardless of how I feel; "This bed wants me HERE!" I bring joy to the bed by sharing my presence for a precious few additional hours, knowing that tomorrow, if it is feeling more generous, it may permit my passage a little earlier. Today, however, I have succumbed to the pressure of my bedtime neighbors. Later, when I arise, the sun is shining brighter, the surrounding air is warmer and more hospitable, and the bed is suggesting that I should go make breakfast. Following the meal, and despite the extra sleep, I feel less invigorated, less motivated, and less ambitious. The sadness of missing another important class is overshadowed only by the misfortune of having to catch up on another missed homework assignment. Finally, with the extra burden on my mind, the prospect of working during the evening seems even less delightful than it had the last time I questioned why I loathe it so. It is at this point that I swear to myself "This day MUST NOT be repeated!"

    The following morning, my bed, blanket, and pillows shield me not only from the piercing light and frigid air of a new day, but they also offer me refuge from the challenges, obstacles, and disappointments that the outside world has brought into being. This time, it is not so much the physical comfort that holds me in place, as it is the safety from emotional distress. Why risk burdening myself outside the boundaries of my bed when nothing can go wrong within them? It is this simple, almost pre-natal reasoning that is so destructive to productivity. By avoiding the possibility of disappointment, I avoid the possibility of fulfillment. So again, I awaken later than necessary and again, I feel that despite indulging in "extended personal regeneration", I lack substance. Today I have offended others by trying not to. Today I was selfish. Einstein even said that "Without deep reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people." so I vow again: "This day MUST NOT be repeated!"

    It seems that I pay for my decision, whatever it may be. This is most evident when I am desperately struggling to remain conscious during school: the six hours which demand the most attention. The way I see it, awakening on time in the morning is like working for free on your day off, and so on the days that I do happen to roll out of bed for school, I feel like I'm depriving myself of something that I truly deserve. On these days I can hear my bed's voice in the back of my mind, reminding me of how awkward and uncomfortable my current situation really is. It explains how the heaven that is bed holds its doors wide open, yet I choose to journey through an icy hell just to "fortify my academic foundation". It is not until the end of the day that I see the magnificence of my journey, or lack thereof. After communicating with dozens of people in fruitless conversation, and engaging in what is usually less than stimulating activity, I come to the realization that, like many other days of enduring the ubiquitous melancholy I call life, it was not worth the effort to get out of bed in the first place.

    It is easy to understand why I experience such difficulty when attempting to extricate myself from the gentle confines of my bed. I�m sure that many people share the same problem, though they may not care to admit it. The fact is that this dilemma runs wild throughout our society, incessantly placing us on the brink of disaster, testing our will on a daily basis. Though these trials seem painfully unnecessary throughout their duration, their utility becomes more evident when we observe our lives from afar. The sacrifices we make are not in vain, it is in giving that we receive. By forfeiting our comfort, we learn much about ourselves, our strengths, our fundamental priorities, and most of all, our passion to battle temptation, and arise in victory.