Journal Entry

03.15. AM

The clock has stopped.
Or maybe it only pretends to tick for my sake.

The machine hums beside me, waiting for a command.

I type words not to create, but to stay awake.

Show me time when it forgets to move.

The machine answers with a man lit by an inner sun — frozen somewhere between heartbeat and dawn.

His eyes carry the same exhaustion as mine.

The glow behind him is not warmth.

It is weight.

The burden of hours that refuse to pass.

I stare at the image until it begins to stare back.

For a moment the room tilts, as if I have slipped into his orbit.

Maybe that is all insomnia is —

a slow gravitational pull
toward the self you meet
when everyone else has fallen asleep.