DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
The kind of luxury I crave isn’t wrapped in gold or stitched with labels. It’s quieter. It’s a full night of sleep—something I’ve been chasing for decades like a mirage. When you’ve lived with insomnia long enough, sleep stops being just rest. It becomes sacred. A kind of mercy. The rare nights when my body lets go and my mind stops spiraling—those feel like stolen hours from another life, a gentler one.
But just as vital is having a creative outlet. Not just the act of creating, but the space—mental, emotional, and physical—to do it. When my kids were little, that space didn’t exist. Creativity lived in scraps of time, scribbled in the margins of obligation. I remember fantasizing about a corner of the house where no one needed anything from me. A desk. A door that closed. Even now, that space feels like a fragile, hard-won miracle.
So no, I can’t choose just one. Sleep restores me. Creativity reminds me who I am. Without both, I forget how to be human.
Memoirs of Madness 