Back in high school, a good friend of mine shared how his father had a nightly ritual of taking Ambien mixed with alcohol to sleep. One night, when he ran out, he tore the whole house down in a frantic search for more and called anyone he thought might have some. His dependency on the drug became painfully evident when he ultimately resorted to obtaining some from a suspicious doctor for an exorbitant sum. I thought about how terrifying it must be to need something so desperately just to find rest. I imagined that if I were in his position, I would likely stockpile several bottles as a precaution, ensuring I would never run out or have a backup in case I misplaced one. At that moment, I resolved to seek better ways to improve my sleep—perhaps journaling could help clear my mind and prepare me for rest, I thought.

I recently revisited the journal my mother gifted me five years ago. It stands as one of the most cherished birthday presents I have ever received—perhaps the very best, though such a declaration requires deeper reflection. I have been fortunate to receive many gifts throughout my life, ranging from expensive items to sentimental treasures from people I deeply care about. Yet, despite this abundance, I find myself grappling with a peculiar uncertainty about what I truly desire. It’s not that I lack for anything; rather, I feel paralyzed by indecision, a thought that seems tangential but weighs heavily on my mind.

This paradox leads me to question whether my reluctance to write in this journal—five years later, with only a quarter of its pages filled—stems from my perceived inadequacy as a writer. I convince myself that I lack the clarity, precision, and command of language that characterize good writing. My thoughts often meander, and when I strive to incorporate a richer vocabulary, my sentences feel contrived. Writing, thus, feels unnatural—a realm I shy away from until I deem myself more competent.

Yet, as I leaf through the pages, a realization dawns upon me: I have been deceiving myself. “This is good,” I acknowledge, not merely because these are my words, but because each version of myself that chose to write in those moments possessed a certain authenticity. The act of writing grounds me; it pulls me back from the vastness of my thoughts, from the astronaut’s solitude in the cosmos, to the tangible reality of Earth. Here, on Earth, I confront my uncertainties, my failures, and my disorientation regarding my purpose in life.

Each page I turn evokes a flood of memories, yet I find myself lost in the enigma of my own identity. I write to block out the cacophony of existence, striving for equilibrium, if only fleetingly. Recording the date and entry number brings me face to face with the essence of my being—the muted boy within, stifled by ego, corruption, and the harshness of the world. Within each of us lies a muted child, not merely silenced by society but shackled by it—bound by invisible chains that restrict it from surfacing. Children who sleep easily and deeply, who rest comfortably and dream sweet dreams.

In closing, I share a story:

Lexi looked at me, concern etched on her face, and asked if I was alright. I was lost in thought, gazing out the window. “I’m fine,” I replied, though the sadness lingered. After dinner, I handed the valet my ticket, and as I drove back to my apartment, she asked me to drop her off at her place.

“I would love to stay over again tonight, but I promised my sister I’d dogsit. Tomorrow night, though?”

“Oh, that’s fine.”

As I dropped her off, I pulled out my phone to text Emilia and Lucy. Lexi hadn’t even left the car yet, and I felt a pang of regret. I genuinely liked her. Their responses came simultaneously, but while Lucy was undoubtedly more attractive and intelligent, I found myself at a crossroads. I wasn’t seeking a commitment with either of them. Emilia had been through this cycle before; she was either well-acquainted with the game or just as lonely—deep down—as I was. She arrived at my apartment and bombarded me with kisses. It was her MO. I sometimes wished I could reciprocate as much love as she gave me. Maybe that’s why I asked her over. ‘She really likes me,’ I thought, though that realization brought a bittersweet ache.

“Not tonight…”

She looked perplexed, as if the only reason she ever expected me to call her over was for sex. She mentioned last week that she knew the game I was playing, as if it were some sort of reverse psychology. But the truth is, I just wanted to sleep, and she was my Ambien for the night.

As she fell asleep on my chest, I gently shifted her head, careful not to wake her. The moonlight filtered into the room, casting shadows over my bookshelf, where my favorite journal awaited.