In the dark, when the night is still and quiet, I wrestle with death. It’s not a fight of fists or shouts, but a quiet, grinding struggle that never seems to end. Death comes in waves, in shadows that press down on my chest, tightening the air until it’s thin and sharp. I fight to breathe, and sometimes I win, but it’s never for long. The darkness comes back, heavy and sure, like an old hunter tracking his prey.

In my sleep, it’s always the same. The cold sweeps over me, and I feel the weight of it. My hands push at nothing, my legs kick at the void, but it’s all just air. Death isn’t a man you can knock down, or a beast you can outrun. It’s just there, waiting, patient, like the sea. And all I can do is fight it, night after night, hoping to keep my head above water for one more breath.

When I wake, the room is still. The sun pushes through the window, the shadows retreat, and I am alive again. But I know it’s temporary. The fight will come back. It always does. And one day, death will win, as it always does. But until then, I fight. Because that’s all there is to do.