There’s this kind of peace in surrendering to sleep, like slipping underneath the water and choosing not to swim back up. No thrashing — just the hush of everything fading, as the world ripples above just out of reach. Voices muffled, colors blurring together. It’s different here — not a bad different, though. Like walking through a door you didn’t know existed. Weird, but the kind that fits together like a puzzle.

He wonders why waking up doesn’t feel the same way — why real life always scrapes his skin up like a knee on concrete. Why does rest only come when no one is looking? Or when it doesn’t feel like something he’s supposed to be used to? Is he failing at being human? Or is being human failing him?

He just wants something quieter. Something gentler — an escape. A place where thoughts don’t scream, but whisper. Where he can simply be, without explanation — a breath. But maybe peace was never suposed to be loud — but quiet.