2:22 — A Time That Devours Me

Unfiltered Thoughts at 2:22 AM

It’s 2:22 AM. The paranoia is back.

I keep whispering to the dark because it feels like the universe might answer back. God, how hungry I am for that. How hungry we all are - to be the subject of a cosmic conversation.

We love the illusion that we are important enough for the universe to communicate with us.

But the truth that stabs me awake at night is simple and obscene - we are not that important.

2:22

2:22

We are not that important. Saying it aloud makes the floor drop. The room tilts like the world is a stage and I just found out I wasn’t the audience but a prop.

I am terrified of the idea that my fate is unknowable. The word “uncertainty” is a mouthful I cannot swallow. The fact that the future might be an unopened letter I will never read eats at me.

And so, my mind invents signs to soothe this panic. It notices a repeated number and inflates it into destiny. It finds patterns because it cannot bear the thought of not finding them. It tells me - here is fate. Here is order. Here is something to hold on to.

2:22

The signs are not comfort. They are a slow poison. They make me believe I can know, they make me taste certainty and then snatch the plate away.

I begin to live inside the illusion, until it is all I have.

And when reality reasserts itself, the fall is worse than the initial loneliness.

2:22

2:22

These numbers are knives. They are gentle knives, the ones that whisper before they cut. I look at the clock until my eyes hurt, until the numbers swim and match the beats of my heart.

My hands tremble from holding nothing and everything. My throat is full of swallowed questions.

I imagine fate as a sealed letter on my kitchen table. I imagine myself ravenous, ripping it open, but my fingers are empty. The terror of not-knowing eats under my skin until I can feel the bones of my choices twitch.

If I could truly know my fate, maybe the tremor would stop. Maybe I could stop inventing conversations with emptiness. But certainty is a luxury no human gets to afford.

2:22

These numbers stare at me like a pair of knives.

2:22

Sometimes I want to scream until the sound rearranges the stars. I want to force meaning out of the dark. Instead, I get a silence that is both ancient and intimate. It presses against my skull.

I am tired.

God, this existential exhaustion eats me to the core.

Every night a new sign arrives and I take it as a prophecy. Every morning I wake hungover from meaning, ashamed and raw. The ritual continues. Because panic is relentless and the mind is cowardly and I cannot tolerate being unknown.

The mind will not believe emptiness. It will rather dress in illusions.

Oh god, I am ashamed of this - I embrace the lie of meaning because the truth would break me. I choose false meaning because I cannot bear true emptiness. I confess it to the dark because the dark cannot shame me further.

2:22

The clock keeps saying the same thing and the same stubborn thought keeps haunting me - what if the universe is silent on purpose, and I have been inventing voices in the dark? The questions ricochet in my skull like a child with a bouncy ball. Each bounce is louder than the last.

2:22

I press my ear to the dark and try to breathe through the fear. I want relief. The honest relief of not needing a pattern to survive. I want to accept uncertainty like a heavy coat and wear it without trembling.

Tonight the clock shows 2:22 and I sit with the hunger and the humiliating little rituals and the tender gullibility that keeps me human.

I hate it. I love it. I am desperate and small and awake.

2:22

2:22

These numbers are knives and I let them sit at my throat. I do not slit anything, I only hold the blade there long enough to feel the cold truth.

For now, I am my own oracle. For now, it will work. I tuck the shame under my tongue and sleep with its bitter taste.