1 min read
Sleep feels
like a rehearsal
for death.
A quiet surrender.
A pause
I cannot resist.
Every night,
I lie down
and let go.
Of control.
Of thoughts.
Of identity.
For hours,
I disappear.
No awareness.
No action.
Just stillness.
And that
reminds me.
Time is limited.
Not in years.
But in moments
I stay awake.
Every second
before sleep
becomes valuable.
Because I know
I’m about to
lose it.
Temporarily.
But still,
lose it.
So why waste
the waking hours?
Why delay
what matters?
Why hold back
what I feel?
Sleep
doesn’t negotiate.
It arrives.
No matter
how unfinished
my day is.
No matter
how many words
I didn’t say.
No matter
how many actions
I postponed.
It takes me
as I am.
Incomplete.
And that truth
is uncomfortable.
Because it shows me
how often
I delay living.
How often
I assume
there is more time.
But every night
proves otherwise.
A full stop
in the middle
of unfinished sentences.
So I learn
to respect
the hours
before sleep.
To act.
To speak.
To try.
To live
with intention.
Because once
I close my eyes,
I give up
another fraction
of my life.
And when I wake,
I get it back.
A new chance.
A fresh start.
Not guaranteed.
But gifted.
So before
the next sleep comes,
I choose
to live fully.
As if this pause
might one day
be permanent.
