My relationship with sleep is a long and drawn-out tug-of-war.
Sometimes, it is as generous as an old friend, opening its warm embrace when I am exhausted, enveloping me in that dreamless darkness, like sinking into a deep lake, soundlessly. Sometimes, it is as stingy as an enemy, standing by my bedside in the tossing night, sneering as I confront the ceiling, each second stretching like a year.
Gradually, I came to understand that sleep is never merely a physiological need. It is another form of existence, a door leading to a world in the dark.
Let's start with those sleepless nights. They are like a group of uninvited ghosts, always arriving at the most unguarded moments. The body has already sunk into the bed, but the mind remains unusually alert, like a lamp that refuses to go out, stubbornly shining in the darkness. Regrets from the past, anxieties about the future, and random thoughts from the day all come flooding in, weaving an impenetrable web in the mind. I once thought that insomnia was a waste of time, but later I came to understand that it was the soul demanding repayment from the conscious self - those things that couldn't be thought about during the day, the night would force you to think about; those emotions that could be avoided during the day, the night would force you to confront.
So I stopped struggling. I learned to get up when I couldn't sleep, make myself a cup of warm tea, sit by the window, and watch the night gradually fade away inch by inch, and the east slowly brighten up bit by bit. It turns out that insomnia has its own gifts: it mutes the whole world, leaving only you and your heartbeat.
Then let's talk about those dreams. Dreams are another form of consciousness bestowed by sleep. In dreams, I have met old friends who have long passed away, said things I would never utter in reality, and visited cities that do not exist on any map. Sometimes, dreams feel more real than reality - on the morning after waking up, I would be lost in a daze for a long time, unable to tell which part was the true experience of being alive.
Freud said that dreams are the fulfillment of desires, but I think dreams are more like a mirror, reflecting the truths we dare not face. The fears we hide during the day, the love we suppress, and the deep-seated desires we bury all take off their masks and stand naked before us in dreams. I have repeatedly run in my dreams but always remained in the same place; I have also dreamed of my teeth falling out one by one, and still felt frightened when I woke up. Later, I came to understand that those were not nightmares; they were my soul gesturing the anxiety I refused to admit when awake.
Interestingly, sometimes dreams are kind. They give me a complete embrace and let me see again the person I will never see again. Knowing it's a dream, I don't want to wake up; after waking up, there are tears on the pillow, but there is warmth in my heart. Dreams are like a cunning magician, returning what is lost to you, but only for one night.
I gradually discovered that sleep and wakefulness are not two completely opposite shores.
The deepest wisdom often emerges in the half-awake, half-asleep state. The answers that elude one during the day suddenly come in the moment between sleep and wakefulness; the sentences that one can't write down form themselves in the confusion of the early morning. No wonder the ancients said "conceiving ideas in bed", and no wonder many poets keep notebooks by their bedside. Sleep is not the enemy of thinking; it is the soil for it.
Nowadays, I have finally reached a kind of reconciliation with my sleep.
I no longer insist on getting eight hours of sleep, nor do I worry about insomnia, nor do I look down upon the ramblings of dreams. I know that every sleepless night is a monologue of the soul; every dream, whether beautiful or terrifying, is a letter from the subconscious.
Sleep is a bridge that connects the conscious here and the unconscious there. We spend one third of our lives on this bridge, yet seldom do we stop to look at the flowing water beneath. Perhaps, learning to coexist with sleep is to learn to coexist with the deepest part of ourselves - accepting its uncontrollability, revering its mystery and being grateful for its gifts.
It was late at night. I turned off the light and lay down, like a small boat sailing towards the dark sea.
Tonight, whether sleep comes or not, I am ready to face it gently.