I can’t sleep. Again. It’s not just frustrating anymore. It’s exhausting. Deeply, relentlessly exhausting. My body feels worn out, but my mind refuses to shut off. Even with 5mg of Valium, 10mg of Clobazam, and 25mg of Zoloft, I lie awake for hours. Insomnia doesn’t feel like a condition anymore. It feels like a second version of me. I’ve stopped expecting relief. The hope of rest has faded into this dull acceptance that sleep just isn’t coming.
A few days ago, I read about naked singularities. They’re theoretical points in space where gravity becomes infinite. Unlike black holes, they aren’t hidden behind an event horizon. They’re exposed, visible, and impossible to explain with the usual laws of physics. They’re not supposed to exist. But somehow, they do. That idea hit me. Lately, I feel like that. Like something exposed and raw, too heavy and too strange to fit the rules I used to live by.
Camus talked about the absurd. The way we reach out for meaning, and the universe stays silent. That space between wanting answers and getting none. I live in that space most nights. Not quite despair, but not hope either. Just a constant awareness that I’m here, awake, feeling too much, with no clear reason for any of it.
I don’t pretend to be fine anymore. I don’t have the energy. Everything hits harder these days. Emotions don’t wait their turn. Memories don’t ask permission. There’s no filter left. Just me, sitting in it all. But maybe that’s something. Camus didn’t tell us to be happy. He just asked if we could keep going anyway. Not because there’s meaning waiting, but because we can still choose to live without it.
So here I am. Still awake. Still breathing. Still choosing, even if I don’t always know why. Maybe that’s what strength looks like right now. Not fixing it. Not escaping it. Just continuing. Even without sleep. Even without answers.