Insomnia of the soul.
Some nights, sleep comes easily, when the weight of the day slips off like a coat at the door, and I sink into the quiet embrace of rest without resistance. I close my eyes and drift into rest, the day behind me, the world quiet.
Those nights feel like grace, soft, silent, healing. On these nights, the world feels simple, and peace is as natural as breathing.
But then, there are the other nights. The ones where sleep is a distant shore, visible but unreachable. The nights when sleep is elusive.
You start thinking. Not about tasks or to-do lists, but about life, the kind of thinking that stretches deep into the soul. You revisit old memories, wonder about the future, question your choices, and search for meaning in the spaces between your thoughts.
I think about time, how it stretches and contracts, how moments slip through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold them. I think about love, loss, the paths I’ve taken and the ones I’ve left behind. The quiet of the night magnifies everything; every question, every regret, every hope echoes louder in the absence of daylight distractions.
Sometimes, it’s overwhelming. Other times, it feels necessary, like your heart is trying to catch up with your mind, or vice versa. And though you wake up tired, there's a strange kind of clarity that lingers. As if staying awake with your thoughts was, somehow, its own kind of rest.
Some might call it insomnia( I remember I was suffering from this months back), but it feels more like a kind of wakeful meditation. In these hours, I confront truths I avoid when the sun is up. There’s a rawness to the night, and honesty that daylight softens. I wonder about purpose, about whether I’m living right or simply passing through. I replay conversations, rewrite endings, and imagine futures that may never be. It’s exhausting, yes, but also strangely clarifying, as if the darkness is a canvas for the soul’s unfinished sketches.
Perhaps this is the balance. Some nights, we rest. Others, we reckon. Sleep is for the body, but these wakeful hours are for the mind, the heart, the parts of us that need stillness to be heard. So I don’t always fight it. Sometimes, I let the thoughts come.
And when morning comes, whether after deep sleep or deep thought, I rise. Carrying the quiet revelations, the unanswered questions, the weariness, and the clarity, all of it folded into the new day.
