Burden of Restlessness

The patient entered, draped in their finest attire, as though fabric alone could mend the fractures time had inscribed upon the body. There was something deliberate in the way they carried themselves, an unspoken belief that dignity could be preserved through careful presentation. The pressed linen, the impeccable cut of the fabric, the way the collar sat just so — none of it was accidental. Their makeup — poised, restrained — was not vanity but a quiet act of defiance against the slow erosion of time. And when they spoke, their voice carried the measured cadence of a life spent selecting words with care. It was polished, deliberate, softened by the patience that only years can bestow.

Yet beneath this cultivated poise, the body bore the weight of too many summers. It had known heat and fatigue, had stretched itself across decades, and had grown accustomed to carrying burdens both visible and unseen. A body that understood, without resistance, the quiet art of endurance.

Then, as if surrendering something long held in silence, their complaint emerged, slipping through the cracks in their composure: sleepless nights, unrefreshing rest. The words, spoken almost absently, settled softly — yet within them lay an abyss.

I thought of Gandhi’s words: "Man should forget his anger before he lies down to sleep." But how does one truly forget? Does forgetting mean erasure, or merely the ability to carry differently? What if anger, mellowed by time, is no longer a blade but a sediment — settling, unshaken, into the crevices of the soul? What if resentment has long since ceased to be a conscious choice, instead becoming a rhythm within the body, an unrelenting pulse that sleep can no longer soothe?

Beneath all the refinement, beneath the carefully measured politeness and the weary yet elegant acceptance of time, something else remained — a heart, still aching, still afraid, still rebelling in silence. Some wounds do not declare themselves outright. They exist in the pause between breaths, in the way fingers linger on fabric, in the restless nights spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the echoes of words never spoken.

Perhaps sleep does not come to those who merely close their eyes, but to those who dare to surrender — who release the weight of what was, not because they have forgotten, but because they have at last chosen to let it rest.

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