When the World Forgot to Sleep

I don’t remember the last time I dreamt.

Not just because I’m getting older and dreams tend to slip through the cracks of memory—but because the world doesn’t sleep anymore.

It started small, like most strange things do. A new supplement hit the market, promising true wakefulness without the crash. No more coffee jitters, no more naps in the afternoon. Just energy—clean, bright, and constant. Doctors were skeptical. Scientists raised their eyebrows. But the people? Oh, we were tired. So, so tired. So we bought it. We took it.

And just like that, sleep became optional.

Then it became rare.

Then… it became forgotten.

At first, it was electric. Imagine what we could do with those extra hours! Students could study longer. Artists could create without pause. Parents could stay up with their babies and still work in the morning. Productivity soared. The stock market bloomed like springtime in fast forward. Factories never shut down. Cafés stopped closing. Cities glowed through the night like fireflies trapped in a jar.

I was a writer. Am a writer, technically. Or at least I was before the words stopped coming. Back then, I was thrilled. I filled notebook after notebook, chasing ideas like shooting stars, catching them all because I was awake for every single one.

But then… something shifted.

It didn’t hit all at once. It crept in softly, like the way fatigue used to. Only this time, it was the absence of fatigue that wore us down.

We didn’t notice how much we needed the dark.

At first, the side effects were easy to ignore. People became a little more irritable. Laughed less. Smiled with their mouths but not their eyes. Without sleep, we stopped dreaming at night. And slowly, we stopped dreaming in the day, too.

Relationships frayed like old rope. Couples argued not over big things, but over everything. Kids started struggling in school—not because they couldn’t stay awake, but because their little minds had nowhere to rest. Teachers said they were distracted, but I think they were just overwhelmed.

And me? My writing grew hollow. I had all the time in the world, and nothing worth saying. My sentences came out sharp, but cold. Polished, but soulless.

Because when you never stop… you forget what stillness feels like.

I missed the ache in my bones that came before a deep sleep. I missed the wild, nonsensical dreams. I missed lying in bed and letting my mind wander. I missed… silence.

One evening, years into this sleepless world, I met a woman named Elise.

I found her in a quiet part of town, sitting on a park bench beneath an old willow tree. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back as if drinking in a breeze no one else could feel.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” I asked gently.

She opened her eyes and smiled. “I’m remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“What it felt like to rest.”

I sat down beside her. We talked for hours. About the world before. About dreams. About the weird, beautiful way sleep stitched us together—even when we were apart.

Elise was part of a small group—people who were trying to bring sleep back. Not with pills or potions, but with something deeper. They called it The Quiet Movement. They turned off their lights at night. They wrote bedtime stories for their children. They lay in the dark and breathed until their bodies remembered how to let go.

I joined them.

At first, nothing happened. I lay in bed each night with my eyes closed, waiting. The world outside my window buzzed with energy—cars honking, screens flickering, people moving like ghosts through the glow.

But inside, it was different.

I lit a candle. Read poems. I stopped drinking the supplement. The withdrawal was tough—my thoughts scrambled, my body rebelled. But I stayed with it.

One night, something changed.

My eyelids grew heavy.

Not just tired-heavy, but warm. Comforted. I felt my body sink, like the earth was pulling me gently toward itself. And then—just for a moment—I let go.

I dreamed.

It was simple. I was walking through a forest. A deer looked at me. The air smelled like pine and rain. I woke up with tears in my eyes.

I had forgotten how beautiful dreaming could be.

It’s been years now since that night.

The world still moves too fast. Most people still don’t sleep. But the Quiet Movement is growing. You can find us in the parks at dusk, listening to the wind. In libraries, curled up with blankets and books. In homes lit only by the moon.

We sleep. We dream. We remember.

I write again—not because I have time, but because I have something to say. Real stories. Stories with heart. Like this one.

The Moral:

When we stop sleeping, we don’t just lose rest—we lose reflection. We lose the sacred pause that helps us understand, feel, and connect. In a world obsessed with doing, sleep is a quiet rebellion. It’s where healing begins, where dreams are born, and where our humanity breathes.

So tonight, turn off the light. Put down the phone. Let go.

Close your eyes.

And come home to yourself.