The Wall

There are nights I don’t want to go to sleep because dreams are the only place she still feels reachable. And I’ve had nights where I dreaded sleep because dreams are where I lose her all over again. That’s a sick little setup, isn’t it? Even unconsciousness can’t just be neutral anymore. The place that should be rest has become another room grief can occupy. Sometimes I wake up wrecked because she was there and now she isn’t. Sometimes I wake up angry because she wasn’t there and apparently even my own mind abandoned the opportunity. People say rest. Heal. Recharge. I’d love to. But my brain is apparently running an after-hours grief shift whether I authorize overtime or not. So I stay up too late. I wait until I pass out. I sabotage myself with exhaustion because at least staying awake feels like I have some agency. Not healthy, probably. Also not exactly mysterious.