2025.5.11

I don’t want to be sleepless anymore.
I’ve tried everything—chamomile tea, white noise, no screens before bed, breathing techniques, even talking gently to myself like a mother to a restless child. But still, night falls and my sleep feels… lost. Like a misplaced object I can’t trace the steps back to.

My body lies down, but my mind refuses. It paces like a worried parent waiting for a child to come home. Memories rise like ghosts. My thoughts don’t quiet—they multiply. Every shadow becomes a story. Every silence echoes.

I envy people who can simply fall asleep, as if sleep is something that falls gently upon them, like snow. For me, it’s a battle. A disappearance.

Somewhere along the way, I think I lost trust in the night. And maybe it lost trust in me too.

I don’t know how to fix this. I just know I want to rest—not just physically, but inside, deeply, without fear. Without racing. Without pretending.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll try again. Maybe tonight I’ll at least stop fighting. Maybe the surrender is what sleep is waiting for.