A Lullaby of the Night

I have a strange habit—or perhaps, a familiar ritual between me and sleep. Every night, instead of letting silence swallow the room, I choose to fill it with sound. A little music, a movie, a film review, or even just the endless ramblings of someone on a screen.


I don’t remember when this habit started. I just know that without these sounds, my sleep feels strangely empty, as if I’m drifting in a void with nothing to anchor me. I don’t need a soft lullaby—just the comfort of familiar dialogues, quiet laughter, or the distant hum of a voice at just the right frequency to lull me into dreams.
On nights when exhaustion takes over, I let myself sleep without playing anything. But the next morning, I always feel like something is missing—like a part of me had an appointment with my little nighttime world and failed to show up.
People say sleep is a time to let everything go and rest. But for me, it’s not about complete silence. It’s about a whispered conversation between me and the things I love. Maybe I’m not really listening, but they’re still there—softly murmuring beside me, like a lullaby only the night can sing.
And so, I sleep, wrapped in a world of stories, melodies, and words that were never truly meant for me—yet somehow, they reach me in their own quiet way.

eclair by tripleS

been feeling a little bit anxious these days but i'm mostly good.

(SOON) hopefully some eggs and toast.