Sometimes I struggle with sleep.
It becomes a battle between life and death,
my body turning through every possible posture,
like yoga practiced in the dark.
I’ve learned to sleep upside down,
knees pulled to my chest,
staring at the heavens,
hoping a single drop of sleep might fall.
Then my mind begins to unravel.
It releases the DCI in me—
replaying the entire day,
searching for a single speck,
something I missed.
I get stressed, worn thin.
I think I’m a good analyser,
sometimes a mathematician,
summing everything in my head
until the numbers won’t stop.
Breathing becomes difficult.
My veins cramp,
and sleep turns into a needle in a haystack—
sharp, distant, impossible to hold.
So I scroll Instagram reels at midnight,
wide awake,
hoping my eyes will grow tired
before my thoughts do.
It feels like burning coal at night,
a quiet fire
that refuses
to go out.