"Have you ever had insomnia so bad one night that you thought you were dead?" Abu Bakr's words echoed in his mind as he sat alone in his room. His heart had raced uncontrollably during the night, as though time had slowed, leaving a vast gap between each pulse. He had risen abruptly, his hand pressed against his chest, fearing that his last night had come. His thoughts spiraled into regret, dwelling on all his sins, wondering if he was ready to meet his Creator. For a few moments, he thought it was the end.
But after drinking some water, the feeling began to subside. The insomnia lifted, and he realized that it wasn't the end, after all. Life was still there, and so was the possibility of change. The broken relationships, the missteps—everything could be made right. The estranged bond with his Creator, the distance from his parents, the fading friendship, the inner turmoil—each one was still redeemable. And as he reflected on it, he made a silent promise to himself: to rise again with clarity and a sense of purpose, to seek the light after a long period of darkness.
The morning came, but he did not rise for the Fajr prayer. He realized that no matter how hard we try, the black night cannot be made white. Just as the night would give way to the day, his internal struggle, too, would eventually find peace. The universe, after all, moves in cycles: night gives way to day, and we, too, must move through our own darkness until we find our way toward the light.
Abu Bakr wrote these reflections in his diary, a page he had not filled for a long time. Since the journey began, he had retreated into his room, reading books to pass the time, but even books couldn't fill the loneliness. He wandered through the ship at night, sometimes trembling and speaking in words he didn't understand. On one occasion, the shipbuilder had rushed to him after hearing his cries, thinking something was wrong.
Abu Bakr pondered the entries in his diary, recognizing a pattern. Each time he wrote, it felt like he was merely recounting past experiences, as though his soul was speaking through his pen. His thoughts flowed like the ink on the paper, creating long passages that didn't fully make sense until he read them again. It was as if writing became a way for him to connect with something deeper within.
This strange feeling of disconnection wasn't new. He had often been startled by the cry of "We have reached land!" only to find nothing when he ran outside to check. Every observer had fallen victim to the same illusion, and eventually, he stopped reacting to those calls, understanding that they were nothing more than mirages. But today, something was different. The shipbuilder had shouted, "There's an island ahead of us!" and this time, Abu Bakr felt a flicker of hope. Could it be real this time? The unknown, the endless sea, suddenly felt a little more promising.