worldsaway

Every night, I beg God to take me in my sleep.

Quietly. Desperately. Like a child asking for mercy.

Please. Just take me. Let me come home. Let me rest.

Because I am so tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. Not the kind cured by a weekend away, or a good cry, or kind words from people who do not understand the depth of this darkness. I am tired in my bones. In my soul. Tired of carrying a mind that feels determined to destroy me from the inside out.

And every morning, when my eyes open again, there is a moment—small, but sharp—where disappointment settles into my chest.

I survived.

Again.

The sunlight creeps through the window like something cruel. Birds sing outside as if the world is still beautiful, as if life is still something to be grateful for. And I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling ashamed for the thoughts I carried into the night.

Ashamed that I prayed for death.

Ashamed that part of me still wishes the prayer had been answered.

What kind of person begs to disappear? What kind of person mourns waking up?

I do not know anymore.

I only know that living feels heavy. Every single day feels like dragging myself through water with rocks tied to my ribs. Breathing has become something I do out of obligation, not desire. Existing feels less like living and more like enduring.

And the loneliness of it all is unbearable.

Because no matter how many people surround me, no matter how loudly I laugh or how brightly I pretend to shine, there is still this terrible emptiness underneath everything. A darkness that follows me into every room. A grief I cannot explain without sounding ungrateful for the life I have been given.

I am lonely in a way that words cannot fully capture.

Not physically alone. Soul alone.

Like I am standing behind glass, watching everyone else live normally while I slowly disappear inside myself.

Some nights, the pain feels so loud I cannot imagine surviving it for another year. Another month. Sometimes even another morning feels impossible. And yet morning always comes. My heart keeps beating. My lungs keep breathing. My body keeps carrying me into days I never asked to see.

There is something especially cruel about surviving when you no longer know how to want survival.

But maybe the cruelest part is this:

A small piece of me still hopes something will change.

A tiny, flickering piece buried beneath all the exhaustion and despair still whispers, “What if there is more than this? What if one day the darkness loosens its grip? What if staying alive eventually feels less like punishment and more like possibility?”

I do not know if I believe that voice yet.

But maybe the fact that I can still hear it means something.

Maybe the fact that I am still here means something too.