When the Night Tried to Speak Through Me

For months, I’ve been waking to the breath of something that isn’t there.

A whisper—not words, but wind—brushing the edge of my lips. Soft as mist. Startling as truth.

I used to think it was a ghost. Something old and restless, curling through the seams of the dark, testing the boundaries of my sleep. But ghosts don’t hover near your mouth. They haunt the past. This felt… different.

This felt like a message trying to get in.

So I started sleeping with my arms cocooned around my face, as if my own limbs could form a gate, a warning, a protection spell made of muscle and resolve.

Then came last night.

The sound of something buzzing—wild, frantic, desperate to escape—slammed me out of sleep. The room was empty. My breath caught in my throat. Nothing moved. No wings. No shadow. Only that haunting question flitting through the silence:

What if the noise was me?

What if some part of me has been knocking on the walls of consciousness for months? Buzzing, brushing, breathing. Waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be named.

Not a ghost. Not a dream.

But the wild, buried truth of a woman who no longer fits inside the story she once created.

And now I wonder… how many of us are waking up to strange visitations, not to be haunted—but to be called? To speak. To break free. To finally buzz loud enough that we shake the old walls down and let the light flood in.

Maybe the night isn’t trying to scare us.

Maybe it’s trying to send us a message.

Some nights don't just pass—they stay with us, stitched into memory. Let yourself be led to “The Night the Wings Woke Me” and its poetic version, where longing takes flight and the heart listens through the dark.