Somnia drifts in like an echo: something you have heard before, something you hope will feel familiar, but tonight it’s strange and distant. There’s no comfort in the dark, only the weight of your own breath, the restless beating behind your ribs. Eyes half-closed, you stare at the ceiling, waiting for rest that feels more like forgetting than relief.
In somnia, time loses its shape. Minutes stretch into hours, or collapse into a few flickering seconds. Every shimmy of a curtain, every drip of water in the distance, every sparrow’s wing against window glass seems amplified—too loud, too vivid. Your mind reaches back to faces and places you loved, things left unsaid, the way laughter once lifted you, the way absence now pulls you under.
You shift in bed. The sheet is cool, or maybe warm—you cannot tell. Your hand brushes the pillow, tracing its outline, hoping for safety there. But even comfort turns jagged: the pillow smells faintly of yesterday’s coffee, the mattress sags in places where your body remembers weight. Not enough to be painful, just enough to count.
Dreams register as half-images. A door you used to know. Light glancing off water. A lullaby you once heard in childhood, lungs soft, eyes heavy. Then the scene warps: corridors widen, hallways fold back. The voices of memory turn strange. A voice asks: “Why didn’t you go back?” Another: “What if you had spoken?” And you lie there, silent, because words in somnia never land softly. They echo, slip away, or shatter.
Somnia refracts your fears. You fear that the rest you chase will never come. That the dawn won’t banish the ache behind your eyes. That every sunrise will carry the residue of the night—tiredness, sadness, longing. You fear that in waking, you lose something subtle: the insight borrowed from shadow, the questions you only ask when light slips away.
Yet, there is something raw and honest about somnia. It strips away pretense. In the quiet, you're forced to see what you hide in day. Your regrets, your desires, the small kindnesses you forgot, regrets you tucked away, the soft edges around things unsaid. You sense what wants to be forgiven. What wants to be held. What you hope to carry forward when rest finally comes.
And at last, it does. A sliver of light under the door. The promise of morning in the hush. You wake, slow and blinking. The room smells like paper, like curtains, like the world before you. Your limbs heavy with absence, but your mind holding fragments: that lullaby, that voice, that stray thought. You carry them with you like fragments of glass—sharp, fragile, beautiful.
Somnia is not just sleeplessness. It is where our edges fray, where our insides become visible, where we confront grief, hope, memory. And though each night in somnia is a battle, the mornings remind us that we endure. That we can still rise, still hope—for rest, for peace, for dreams that stay.#SomniaBNBChainSummer @Somnia Official $SOMI
