Chasing moonlight in the storm
Personal reflections from a fellow insomniac
Finding calm in this relentless noise feels as impossible as chasing moonlight across a stormy sea. Outside, the world blares its tragedies in headlines and shattered dreams; inside, a torrent of shame, fear, and guilt surges from the cavern of my childhood in a doomsday cult. Even fifteen years after escaping, those dark memories coil around my thoughts like creeping vines, casting every moment in charcoal gray.
Lately, that spiral has only tightened. My pen lies unused, my microphone gathers dust, and the silence that once birthed ideas now hums with darker impulses. Some nights I sink into the gloaming of my worst imaginings, seeking relief at the bottom of a bottle or behind every flashing screen—only to wake with new wounds carved by numbness and regret.
I know from brighter days that stillness can restore me: meditation’s gentle tether, the slow-flowing art of qigong, metacognitive training, and the soft suggestion of self-hypnosis. Each once served as a lifeline, hauling me back from the brink. But now, even reaching for my mala beads or settling onto the cushion feels like wading through molasses. My solitary morning meditation remains the one unbroken thread, though its sharp clarity has blurred into fog.
Still, I cling to a single vivid recollection: sitting in silent communion with my breath, each inhale a cool stream washing over me, each exhale dissolving worry into nothingness. In those rare, luminous minutes, I tasted true peace and felt anchored to something deeper than my fear. That fragile memory is my guiding beacon.
Now I stand at a crossroads. In therapy, I sift through the wreckage of my past, page by painful page. I’m also weighing a return to weekly, hour-long meditation sessions at my local Buddhist center—not from dogma, but for the hush of shared presence and the warmth of a community that once clothed me in a suit of invisible armor. Before the pandemic, those gatherings braced my spine for life’s storms; perhaps they can again.
I share this not for pity but for solidarity—writing it is another form of reckoning, and maybe by baring my struggle I’ll inspire you to voice yours. Whether in comments below or through a fledgling blog or podcast of your own, shape your truth into living art.
For those wrestling with insomnia’s restless ghosts, know our private Facebook group of over 2,000 kindred spirits awaits—no ads, no sales pitches, only empathetic hearts lifting one another through the dark. If you crave a more creative outlet, feel free to explore my ad-free website, where I post fiction, noise art, spoken word, and other experiments in voice.
Find the medium that resonates with your soul, the practice that anchors you, and a circle that holds you. Though the world may batter us with relentless negativity, if we can unearth purpose and resolve within, we can carve out moments of genuine peace—and perhaps, at last, drift into restful sleep.