My brain feels like it's stuck in a loop, spinning on a cork that has no place. When I close my eyes, the night doesn't feel like a break; it feels like being dragged under a deep ocean of gray noise. I try to scream, but my throat feels like it's made of glass, and the sound just dies inside me before it even reaches the room. The walls seem to breathe in sync with my thoughts, expanding and contracting like a lung that won't let me out of the dry, dusty warehouse of my mind. My mind is a chaotic map with no roads, and every time I try to drive forward, I just get lost in a forest that turns into a maze of red dots and jagged lines. I often find myself staring at the ceiling while the hum of the fridge sounds like a thousand tiny angry birds flying around my head. I feel a strange heaviness in my chest, not like I should, but like my laptop is too heavy and won't turn on, or maybe I'm just too tired to care if the screen flickers out. There's a constant screaming in the back of my head, a voice that says "you can't do this, try again tomorrow, just try again" and it sounds like a cheap radio playing an old, broken rock song. I want to tell this voice to shut up, but the voice has no ears, so I have to shout at a wall. It's like trying to talk to a ghost who lives in a closet of static. My feet are glued to the floor, and walking feels like running into a wall of liquid mercury. Sometimes I just lay there on the bed, blinking slowly, waiting for a star to appear in the dark. The darkness is so thick it feels like oil, and with every blink, it shifts the color from blue to purple to black, making it feel like my eyes are suddenly full of ink. I wonder if someone is watching me, but then I remember I'm alone, which makes the fear turn into a dull ache in my side. I've tried to drink more water, but the water tastes like ash, and it sinks down into my stomach without doing anything. I've tried to breathe in deeply through my nose, but my nose feels like it's too small for the air, and the air rushes right through it like smoke escaping a chimney. My body feels like it's made of rusted steel, and even the simplest movement, like stretching my hand out to touch the pillow, feels like fighting a battle with zero allies. I often wonder if this is just how we are supposed to feel now, a permanent state of being suspended in a gray mist, waiting for a signal that never comes. There is no sunrise, no sunset, no moon rising or setting to break the silence. Just endless nights of gray, white, and soft blue, tasting like copper and old tape. Sometimes, the noise gets so loud it hurts to listen to. I try to close my eyes tight, but the eyelids feel heavy enough to drag me down. I've tried to force myself to open my eyes, but the room feels too big, and I can't find a front door to step through. There are no signs, no roads, no map, just a circle of red light and dark. The hum of the refrigerator sound is a constant reminder that something is wrong, and that something is very much alive. I can't stop thinking about the things I haven't done, the things I haven't said, the things I haven't felt. I live in a room that feels like a prison with no bars, but I have no key. I look at my hands and they look like they're made of smoke, and I can't wash them clean. I feel like I'm trapped in a game that I'm supposed to finish, but I never see the end. I have tried to sleep, but the silence is too loud, and the silence is so heavy it presses against my ribs. I wake up and the first thing I see is my own shadow, and the shadow is twice as big as I am, and it doesn't move. I wonder if I'm dreaming, but if I were dreaming, I wouldn't be so awake. I'm awake, and the waking world feels like it's made of broken glass, sharp enough to cut the air. I tried to blink a few times, but I can't blink fast enough. My eyelids feel like they're stuck in a vice grip, and I can't break free. I have to wait for the light to fade, and the light fades slowly, one by one, until everything becomes a single, dull gray blob of nothingness. I've tried to count my breaths, but my lungs feel like they're empty, and the air doesn't feel like it's moving. I try to memorize a phrase, but my tongue feels like it's stuck behind a giant, invisible mountain. The words float away in the wind, and I can't catch them. I wonder if I'm going to fall asleep, or if I'm going to wake up and realize I never finished the sentence. The sentence is stuck in my throat, and the knot is too tight. I try to loosen it by swallowing, but my throat feels like it's made of sand, and sand doesn't flow, it piles up. I look at my reflection, but I don't recognize the face staring back. It looks tired, but also different. The eyes are not the same, and the mouth is slightly crooked in a way I can't explain. I wonder if I've changed overnight, if I've been carrying something inside that weighs too much. The weight isn't just sleep, it's the silence, it's the noise, it's the absence of sound. I try to push the noise away, but the noise is coming from inside my body, coming from the back of my mind. I hear it clearly, and I know I can stop it. I know I can stop it, but I just press my hand against my ear, and the sound fills my head. There is no peace in this place, but I don't want to leave. I just want to sit here, in the dark, watching the dust motes dance in the light, or maybe just watching the light itself move, even if I can't see it. I've tried to talk to myself, but the self feels like a ghost who doesn't know what to say. I've tried to write, but the paper feels like it's made of air, and the words fall off the page before I can finish them. I feel like I'm running a marathon with no shoes, no water, no strategy, just a pair of legs running on empty. The finish line is somewhere in the future, but I don't know where it is. I wonder if this is a normal thing to feel, or if it's just the end of a long chapter. I sometimes think I might have to wait until tomorrow to wake up, but I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I have enough energy to fight the darkness, or if I just have to accept the silence. The silence is so deep it feels like it's eating me from the inside out, but there's no hunger, only coldness. I try to find warmth, but I can only find cold in my bones. I feel like a fish in a bucket that is too small to contain me, and the water is too shallow to make me float. I just want to feel something, even if it's just a flicker of light, even if it's just a sound that is not my own. I close my eyes and the night feels like a cloak that covers everything, and I can't see the edges of the world. I think about the things I should have done, the things I could have done, and I feel regret as a heavy stone settling in my stomach. I try to smile, but the smile feels too big, and the corners of my mouth are too tired to pull back. I feel like I'm holding a balloon that can't be blown up, and the air inside is so thin I can't feel it. I wonder if I'm going to say something when I wake up, or if I'm just going to be a blank page waiting for someone else to write on it. The clock on the wall is silent, but its ticks are loud enough to make me feel like I'm vibrating with fear. I try to focus on a small detail, like the texture of the carpet or the way light hits a dust mote, but my mind keeps jumping to the end of the world, to the beginning, to the middle. I feel like I'm trapped in a loop that won't stop, and the loop is getting longer every second. I don't know if I can ever get out, but I know I'm not going anywhere. I just sit here, waiting, watching, listening, feeling the gray, the noise, the silence, the cold, the heavy, the tired, the done, the never-ending, and the one thing I don't understand is how much I am alive, and how much I am fighting. I try to count the seconds, but the seconds feel like they are stretching, like they are being pulled apart by invisible hands. I feel like I'm running a marathon with no shoes, no water, no strategy, just a pair of legs running on empty. The finish line is somewhere in the future, but I don't know where it is. I wonder if this is a normal thing to feel, or if it's just the end of a long chapter. I sometimes think I might have to wait until tomorrow to wake up, but I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I have enough energy to fight the darkness, or if I just have to accept the silence. The silence is so deep it feels like it's eating me from the inside out, but there's no hunger, only coldness. I try to find warmth, but I can only find cold in my bones. I feel like a fish in a bucket that is too small to contain me, and the water is too shallow to make me float. I just want to feel something, even if it's just a flicker of light, even if it's just a sound that is not my own. I close my eyes and the night feels like a cloak that covers everything, and I can't see the edges of the world. I think about the things I should have done, the things I could have done, and I feel regret as a heavy stone settling in my stomach. I try to smile, but the smile feels too big, and the corners of my mouth are too tired to pull back. I feel like I'm holding a balloon that can't be blown up, and the air inside is so thin I can't feel it. I wonder if I'm going to say something when I wake up, or if I'm just going to be a blank page waiting for someone else to write on it. The clock on the wall is silent, but its ticks are loud enough to make me feel like I'm vibrating with fear. I try to focus on a small detail, like the texture of the carpet or the way light hits a dust mote, but my mind keeps jumping to the end of the world, to the beginning, to the middle. I feel like I'm trapped in a loop that won't stop, and the loop is getting longer every second. I don't know if I can ever get out, but I know I'm not going anywhere. I just sit here, waiting, watching, listening, feeling the gray, the noise, the silence, the cold, the heavy, the tired, the done, the never-ending, and the one thing I don't understand is how much I am alive, and how much I am fighting. I have to let go, I have to let go. I have to let go of the need for the noise, the need for the light, the need for the connection. The silence is just there, and it's not a punishment, it's just a space. It's just a space where I am allowed to be, to be tired, to be slow, to be me. I try to find warmth, but I can only find cold in my bones. I feel like a fish in a bucket that is too small to contain me, and the water is too shallow to make me float. I just want to feel something, even if it's just a flicker of light, even if it's just a sound that is not my own. I close my eyes and the night feels like a cloak that covers everything, and I can't see the edges of the world. I think about the things I should have done, the things I could have done, and I feel regret as a heavy stone settling in my stomach. I try to smile, but the smile feels too big, and the corners of my mouth are too tired to pull back. I feel like I'm holding a balloon that can't be blown up, and the air inside is so thin I can't feel it. I wonder if I'm going to say something when I wake up, or if I'm just going to be a blank page waiting for someone else to write on it. The clock on the wall is silent, but its ticks are loud enough to make me feel like I'm vibrating with fear. I try to focus on a small detail, like the texture of the carpet or the way light hits a dust mote, but my mind keeps jumping to the end of the world, to the beginning, to the middle. I feel like I'm trapped in a loop that won't stop, and the loop is getting longer every second. I don't know if I can ever get out, but I know I'm not going anywhere. I just sit here, waiting, watching, listening, feeling the gray, the noise, the silence, the cold, the heavy, the tired, the done, the never-ending, and the one thing I don't understand is how much I am alive, and how much I am fighting.