Sleepless Nights: A Cosmic Joke in Bad Lighting

There are nights when the universe conspires against me personally. Not in some poetic, destiny-shaping way—no, that would be too glamorous. Instead, it traps me in a body with aching eyeballs and a brain that behaves like a blender someone accidentally filled with marbles and tomato soup.

I want sleep. I beg for sleep. I’d happily sign a treaty with the underworld. But sleep? She ghosted me. No hot milk, no book, no prayer, no Netflix, not even the soothing voice of a National Geographic narrator describing penguins marching for love—nothing works. I lie there, auditioning desperation poses like a yoga teacher possessed.

My brain, of course, finds this hilarious. Suddenly, it becomes the busiest creature in the galaxy. Busy like an ant colony on free cocaine. Busy like an IKEA manual that decided to grow extra pages just to see me suffer. It doesn’t rest—it opens a nightclub. Loud music, bad lighting, and a DJ who only plays tracks called “Remember That Embarrassing Thing You Said in 2009.”

And then it happens: suddenly I’m replaying a conversation from months ago with a principal. The movie plays on repeat, and I think of all the sharp, brilliant comebacks I should have said instead of what actually came out of my mouth. Why didn’t I say that? Why did I choose that instead? The regret is so intense I can practically hear my own inner director shouting “CUT—DO IT AGAIN, THIS TIME WITH DIGNITY!”

But the brain doesn’t stop there. Oh no. It takes me straight to childhood. Suddenly I’m ten again, walking home proudly with a muddy street dog hidden under my jacket. Mom’s voice echoes: “Not again!” But of course, I won. The dog stayed, and I miss those days—the battles, the victories, the unconditional love of a pet that smelled like old socks and happiness.

Just as I begin to feel sentimental, my brain slingshots me into another reel: my kids, back when they were 3 or 4. That one moment when I lost my nerve, raised my voice, and instantly regretted it. The guilt still hits like a frying pan to the face. And now they’re in their twenties, and I lie there, wondering if they still remember, while guilt drapes itself over me like a wet towel I can’t shake off.

And then the horror show begins. Not philosophy, not enlightenment—my brain decides to rerun the scariest horror movie I ever watched. The one with shadows, pale children, and a girl crawling out of a TV. Suddenly, the corner of my room is suspiciously alive. My blanket? A napkin against evil. The AC clicking off? A demon. My stomach growling? The soundtrack of the apocalypse.

I even try counting sheep. But not the cute, fluffy kind. No. These are drunk sheep hopping over the fence like reckless party animals, tripping on their own wool, collapsing in a heap, and then roasting me: “Look at her, can’t even sleep without us. Pathetic.” One lights an imaginary cigarette. Another pulls out a tiny microphone and does stand-up. My insomnia is basically a barnyard open mic night.

Prayer? Forget it. Years ago, rosaries and mantras worked like melatonin. Now, they’ve unionized against me. Every bead I count, I summon sarcastic saints: “She’s back. She thinks this still works. Adorable.” The mantras chant back at me like a broken washing machine on spin cycle. Divine betrayal, wrapped in Sanskrit and Latin.

And then, in between blinks, I imagine myself as Venom. Yes, that Venom. If I could get infected like in the movie, I’d jump into my dream, grow alien teeth, and devour every monster blocking me from my rainbow-valley dreamscape. If I can’t have sleep, at least give me Marvel powers and sharper cheekbones.

The brain still isn’t done. Somewhere between 3 and 5 a.m., I decide to rise above it all and write something important. Something transformative. An article I’ve been planning for weeks. I sit up, exercise my fingers on the keyboard, ready to channel my insomnia into genius. But instead of brilliance, my brain develops hiccups. What comes out looks like the diary of a confused goat:
“mosquito is ghost of potato? lamp is judge? Zzz? why milk not sexy???”

And just when I’m about to give up, the mosquito shows up. Not even the brave kind that bites, but the cowardly philosopher mosquito, circling my ear, buzzing like a failed monk who forgot the mantra. It doesn’t bite—it just lectures me with its tiny zzzzz sermon on the futility of existence.

By the time dawn arrives, I’ve fought saints, sheep, demons, old principals, guilt trips, horror movies, childhood pets, my kids’ toddler tantrums, and Marvel aliens—all without leaving my bed. The first bird sings outside, smug as a talk-show host. And suddenly, everything in my room looks like a metaphor: the blanket is a failed parachute, the pillow a stone tablet, the bed an open grave for common sense.

I whisper into the pink light:
“Fine. Universe wins.”

 I know the truth: I haven’t slept, I haven’t written anything useful, and my only real accomplishment is inventing a new genre—nonsensical nonsense that still kind of makes sense. Like a sandwich made of fog, or a philosophy class taught by a potato.

And somehow, that feels… enough