November 4th, 2025
There is a peculiar rhythm to sleeplessnessone that bends time, warps perception, and paints even the quietest hours in shades of exhaustion and raw honesty. On this Tuesday, November 4th, 2025, the day didn't begin with sunlight or birdsong or the gentle nudge of an alarm. It began in the liminal space between midnight and dawn, where pain is a constant companion and distraction becomes a lifeline.
I started my "morning" (though it was technically still night) with a cool water bottle pressed firmly against my forehead. It wasn't a ritualit was survival. Severe body pains have become so familiar that I no longer flinch at their arrival; they simply are, like gravity or breath. I've grown used to them the way one grows used to a heavy coat in winter: uncomfortable, but necessary for survival. And so, there I wasat some ungodly hourwith my makeshift ice pack and a stubborn will to endure just a little longer.
To escape the weight of my own skin, I turned to digital rebellion: modded games. Nothing too risky, nothing too grandjust small acts of mischief downloaded from corners of the internet I probably shouldn't have trusted. But what did I care? "I'm the god of mischief," I whispered to myself with a half-smile, half-sigh. My phone could've been mining my data, selling my digital soul to algorithms or shadowy corporationsbut it didn't matter. There was nothing worth stealing anyway. No bank accounts, no secrets worth trading, just a mind too tired to worry about virtual theft when real pain was already knocking at the door. Besides, the games were good. Bright colors, glitchy mechanics, a sense of control in a world that offers so little of it. For a few fleeting moments, I wasn't aching. I was winning.
As the night deepened, I remembered to drink water. Small victories, right? Hydration feels like a luxury when your body is screaming for relief, but I poured it slowly, deliberately, as if honoring some ancient pact with myself: You won't give up today. And then came the storiesthe ones I read, the ones I tell myself, the ones that loop endlessly in the dark. There's a strange irony in how I can craft narratives about hope, resilience, and the beauty of human connection… yet can't bear to look at my own reflection.
My facewhat a joke. "Moulded like a donkey," I muttered, not with humor but with the kind of blunt self-critique that only comes when you've been alone with your thoughts too long. It's not vanity. It's not even about looks, really. It's the disconnect between who I am on the insidestrong, capable, drivenand the fragile, weary vessel that carries me through each day. I am strong. I know this. I lead, I support, I show upeven when I ache. But strength doesn't always live in the heart. Sometimes it's just a performance, a borrowed armor worn until the real feeling catches up. And right now, my heart doesn't feel strong. It feels tired. Hollowed out. Like a room with all the furniture gone but the echoes still remain.
I know how this sounds. Cringey. Dramatic. Self-indulgent. Maybe it is. But writing it downsaying it out loud in wordsis the only way I know how to keep the darkness from swallowing me whole. So yes, I'll call my face ugly. I'll admit I don't want to see it again. Not because I believe it's true in some eternal sense, but because today, in this moment, the mirror feels like a betrayal.
The clock ticked forward. 4:42 AM. Time, that relentless river, refused to pause for pain or poetry. Hunger crept innot the kind that demands a feast, but the quiet gnawing that says, You still need to care for this body, even if you hate it right now. So I reached for snacks. Nothing fancy. Maybe chips, maybe cookies, maybe whatever was within arm's reach. Eating half has become my habitnot out of dieting, but out of a strange negotiation with fullness and emptiness. I take just enough to keep going. Not to thrive. Just to continue.
And then, against all odds, sleep came.
Not gently. Not peacefully. But it camelike a thief slipping through a cracked window, pulling me under before I could protest. One moment I was chewing, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything at once… and the next, I was gone. The world went black. The pain paused. The thoughts hushed.
This day November 4th was split in two: the sleepless night that masqueraded as morning, and whatever comes after I wake. There's no triumph here, no grand revelation. Just a person moving through the hours, stitching together survival with modded games, cold water bottles, half-eaten snacks, and stories that both wound and heal.
You might read this and think, Why share something so raw? But there's power in naming the ache. There's solidarity in saying, "I'm not okaybut I'm still here." And maybe, just maybe, someone else out therealso wide awake at 4 AM, also pressing ice to their temples, also avoiding mirrorswill read this and feel a little less alone.
Because as much as I joke about being the god of mischief, I'm also just a human20 years old, carrying more than my frame was built for, trying to find pockets of light in a day that started in darkness. And if that's cringey? Fine. Let it be cringey. Let it be real.
Let it be proof that even on days when your face feels like a mistake and your body like a prison… you still drank water. You still played a game. You still ate a snack. You still wrote your truth.
And that, in its own quiet way, is hope.
Not the loud, cinematic kind. But the kind that whispers: Keep going. Just a little longer.
Content Warning:
The following narrative contains descriptions of physical pain, emotional distress, negative self-perception, disrupted sleep patterns, and references to mental health challenges. If you are in a vulnerable state or find such topics triggering, please consider skipping this piece or reading it with care. You are not alonesupport is always available.