Another Night, Another Battle

And so, I write.
Because in writing, I find relief.
Because these words carry the weight my body refuses to hold.

Because pain may claim my nights,
But my voice—my voice still belongs to me.

.
Another restless war between sleep and suffering.

I close my eyes, but darkness offers no peace.

I turn, I twist, I wait—
Yet, sleep remains a stranger I cannot touch.

They say, Rest.
They say, Sleep.
But how do you rest when every position feels like punishment?

When lying down burns, and standing up betrays you?

When even stillness is a storm?
They say, Nothing is wrong.
But if nothing is wrong, then why does my body feel like a battlefield?

Why do my legs stagger as if the ground itself is uncertain?

Why does my heart drum a rhythm too heavy to dance to?

Why does pain sit with me like an unwanted guest,

Refusing to leave, refusing to hush?
So, I write.
Because these words do not question me.
Because here, I do not need to prove my pain.

Because in every stroke of ink, I carve out relief,

Even if only for a moment.
March, The Month of Endless Battle
March appears to have been cruel.
A long, dragging, relentless month—
One that grips me tight, refusing to let go.
It has stolen my peace, my sleep, my strength—

And yet, it lingers, dragging its feet like a reluctant guest who has long overstayed.

I have been down. I have been up.
I have been admitted, discharged, poked, prodded—

A cycle of hope and despair, of tests and scans, of doctors searching and finding… nothing.

But nothing feels like something when your body is at war with itself.

Lab tests, scans, prescriptions.
Every effort, every prayer, every pill,
And yet—nothing.
Nothing, they say.
But how can nothing feel like this?
Like my feet barely know the ground,
Like my heart is a drum beaten by unseen hands,

Like my body is an empty house where pain roams free,

Settling in the corners, refusing eviction?
I repeat! But how can nothing feel like this?

How can nothing make my feet tremble beneath me?

How can nothing make my heart pound like fufu in a mortar?

How can nothing steal my sleep, leaving me awake to count the hours,

Each one heavier than the last?
I have tried to hide it. I wear a smile that is not mine—

Smiles like borrowed clothes.
I walk tall on legs that tremble and do not believe in me.

Laughed in rooms where my body only wanted to collapse.

I nod, I laugh, I say, I’m fine—
Yet I am not.
But my nights betray me.
The nights are the worst.
They strip me bare.
Nights know the truth—
No decent sleep. No slumber.
Only me, my pain, and the endless ticking of a clock that seems to mock me.

That my body is at war with itself.
That I am tired in ways sleep cannot fix.
Eyes wide open in the darkness, begging sleep to take me,

Only for pain to hold me tighter.
They say, Rest.
They say, Sleep.
As if rest is a switch to be flipped.
As if lying down is relief.
As if closing my eyes will make the pain disappear.

As if sleep is a gift wrapped neatly, waiting to be unboxed.

But believe me when I say—
Lying down is war.
Standing up is war.
And living at this moment feels like war, too.

And I, I am caught in between.
So, I have made a choice.
If this pain will not leave me,
Then I will carry it, like I have carried every burden before.

Yes! If this pain will not leave, then neither will I.

I will walk. I will work. I will write. I will love.

I will laugh, I will cry, I will live, even if I must do so through clenched teeth—

Not because it is easy, but because surrender is not in my blood.

I will not be reduced to my suffering.
For if today is my end,
Let me go out doing what I love.
Let me go out as me—Puobabangna.
The one who stood when his legs begged him to fall.

The one who smiled even when his heart whispered, Don’t pretend.

The one who chose to live, even when life refused to be kind.

No, I will not bow nor succumb.
Not to sickness.
Not to pity.
Not to the weight of worried eyes.
But in the darkness, I have found light.
I have felt love in my pain.
In my weakest moments, kindness has wrapped itself around me.

I have received my flowers while I can still breathe them in.

And for that, I am grateful.
Therefore, even as March has tried to break me,

I am still here.
Still standing.
Still fighting.
And most importantly, still me.
I walk and move because that is how I fight.
This here, is my story!
Etched in pain but not in defeat.
Written in struggle but not in surrender.
A tale of nights that refused me rest,
Yet days that could not steal my spirit.
If my body falters, my words will not.
If my strength wavers, my will stands firm.
For I am Puobabangna—
The one who writes through the storm,
Who turns agony into art,
Who refuses to let suffering have the final say.