Victor Grosser

It’s 02:47.

Not a sound in the room. But everything is loud.

My thoughts don’t whisper — they pace.

They draft blueprints, dissect memories, replay moments.

Some ideas arrive like guests. Others like ghosts.

Outside, the wind breathes against the window.

The house hums with the soft ticking of machines that never rest — routers, chargers, silent watchers.

Even silence isn’t silent anymore.

I want to sleep.

But sleep feels like betrayal — like I’m abandoning the ideas that finally show up when the world shuts up.

This is the strange paradox of night: Your body begs for rest,

while your mind steps into a meeting it didn’t schedule,

with questions that don’t end and answers that don’t matter by daylight.

Sometimes, it's not insomnia.

It’s not stress.

It’s simply the price of thinking deeply in a world that rarely stops.

So I don’t fight the night.

I let it unfold.

If I’m awake, I write.

If I’m haunted, I listen.

If I’m tired, I wait.

Eventually, the weight lifts.

And sleep will come —

not as surrender,

but as a closing parenthesis.