Sleep refuses to come. I lie there, staring at the empty ceiling, darkness pressing in from all sides. It’s not fear, nor pain — just this relentless wakefulness, as if the night were a place without an exit.
My weary body pleads for rest, but my mind — ever unfaithful — drifts where it shouldn’t. I count the minutes like someone stacking silences. Outside, everything sleeps — the dogs, the streetlights, the windows — but I remain, a solitary witness to time standing still.
They’ve given me explanations: hormones, habits, internal clocks gone awry. But it isn’t just chemistry. It’s something deeper — a strange misalignment between body and soul, as if one were ready to surrender while the other, hesitant, lingers just a little longer.
Acupuncture is a way of whispering to the body: remember? Remember what it was like to sleep? To let darkness be a refuge, not a labyrinth? The finest needles, barely a touch, and something shifts — a knot unravels. The heart slows, the breath deepens, the eyes grow heavy.
Day is noise, haste, urgency. Night should be release. But those who have lost sleep know: some nights turn into exile. And some remedies cannot be bottled. Sometimes, it’s simply about reminding the body how to find its way home.
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