Journal Entry

5:07 AM

The room’s starting to change.
Not light… just less dark.

The house is quiet. Even the streetlight has dimmed.

I couldn’t sleep. Again.

The room was warm, cluttered with half-finished thoughts and books I meant to read.
But the ceiling — it cracked open like a sigh too large for the walls.

The sky didn’t wait.

It poured in, not with stars, but with something older.
Something that felt like light remembering how to fall.

I lay there tangled in sheets that remembered better nights.
Paintings whispered.

The bed felt like a raft again.

I wasn’t dreaming. I was hovering —
between the comfort of the room and the pull of the sky,
between the weight of my body and the weightlessness of wanting sleep.

The ceiling knows me.

I think it splits open
when I start to drift.