#liminalhours
It’s 5 a.m.,
still awake like a noctivagant
who wanders the house,
counting footsteps between rooms,
fear trailing behind like a thin shadow—
a pall stretched across the day before it begins.
“Did you sleep today?” the question rises,
soft, rehearsed, almost kind.
“Yes, I did,” I answer without hesitation,
a lie delivered cleanly,
knowing well
sleep was never made for me,
or perhaps I was never shaped to hold it.
The ceiling knows my stare too well.
The clock blinks accusations.
Hours pass without permission,
each minute a quiet theft.
Scrolling and binging,
thumb numb, mind louder than ever,
I trade rest for noise,
light for distraction.
It doesn’t adore my studies—
doesn’t even pretend to—
yet the pressure persists,
a weight that doesn’t sleep
even when I beg it to.
Thoughts ruminate,
chewing the same failures raw,
replaying futures I haven’t lived
and pasts that refuse burial.
I am hypervigilant,
listening for disasters
that haven’t learned my name yet.
Morning comes like an obligation,
not a relief.
The world wakes refreshed;
I arrive unfinished,
stitched together by caffeine and resolve,
dragging night behind my eyes.
If sleep is a refuge,
then I am stranded at its border—
liminal, unrested,
learning how to function
while profoundly awake.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC