A Lullaby for Those Who Feel Uneasy

Lying down our bed creaks beneath the weight of more than just our bodies. Messy room. Messy hair. Messy thoughts.

And I know this isn’t just my problem. But somehow, it always feels personal.

Sometimes, lying here makes my chest feel tight Not from what I’ve done to others, But from what I keep doing to myself. Every day, I chip away at something inside me. Quietly. Willingly.

They call it work. I call it a slow drowning. A kind of modern slavery where I can’t find the air. No whips, no chains. Just endless tasks, Deadlines crawling up my spine, And uncertainty always whispering louder than anything else.

What will I become tomorrow? Will I still be here seven years from now? Will I still be… me?

The room is silent, But my head is anything but. Screams without mouths, Questions without punctuation, Fears I can’t count.

Lying in bed should feel like rest. But lately, it feels more like a race My mind sprinting in circles, Thoughts clashing into thoughts, Until I feel sick. Until I forget what stillness feels like.

I swear something is chasing me. Everything is. Even here, behind closed doors, under covers, I can’t hide.

I close my eyes, and the breath catches again. Tight. Sharp. Like something heavy has settled in my chest but refuses to name itself.

I want to throw it out this weight. But how do you get rid of something when you don’t even know what it is?

I don’t think I’m alone in this. At least, I hope not.