Sleep is a deception, a ghost wearing the garment of rest

Sleep is a deception, a ghost wearing the garment of rest, a bloody truth hidden beneath our eyelids, an escape from the labyrinth of the mind, where light dances in the darkness, a forbidden beacon sought by dying souls, and our outstretched hands tremble, trying to grasp ephemeral illusions. At the touch of that light, repulsion flickers like silent lightning, and you are thrown back, thousands of miles into the past, to the beginning of the road, wandering in the radio silence of your loneliness, contemplating the abyss within, stretching again and again, caught in the dance of an endless cycle, a carousel of shadows. You spin in spirals until you collapse into a black hole that swallows you, traversing galaxies and spitting you into a nebula, suffocating you with stardust, floating weightlessly, like a dream's feather in the hands of night, calling it rest, but your bones whisper it's just a rehearsal for the grave waiting to embrace you. Then, a comet bursts through the sky of the dream and you startle, gasping, for it has already carved a crater in your fragile heart, your eyes, once suns of your universe, look at the ceiling as at a fallen sky, invoking collapse, wishing to release the comet, to unburden you from the weight of the day, and you feel like a burdened spinning top, turning slowly under the weight of time, until that hour of illusory rest returns, a ritual under the moonlight.