When We Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go

To be honest, I’ve been enjoying life this last month. I’ve had three or four of these things 85% done, but for the first one back, I wanted to share my thoughts on a topic many avoid because let’s face it, it’s uncomfortable. Paying homage to Billie Eilish with the title, I ask

When We Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?

Not just when our heads hit the pillow and we drift into dreams, but when we fall asleep for good. When our breath slows, then stops. When our name is spoken in the past tense. When we leave behind everything we’ve touched, built, feared, or loved. Fucking heavy, right?

Is sleep just the rehearsal for something more final?

It’s strange how death and sleep have always shared language. We “rest in peace,” we “pass on,” we “go to sleep.” Even in scripture, Christ refers to the dead as “only sleeping.” It’s poetic, but it’s also haunting. Because no one knows what comes next, and in that uncertainty, I’ve found a swirl of awe, fear, wonder, and hope.

Do We Wake Up Somewhere Else?

Some believe in heaven. Others, in reincarnation. Some see the lights go out and think that’s it. Oblivion. No audience, no credits, no curtain call. Just stillness.

As a Christian, I believe in eternal life. But I’ll admit, the concept can feel distant when held up against the raw finality of a body lowered into the ground. There are moments when I wonder if I believe because it’s true or because I’m afraid of what it would mean if it isn’t. Doubt isn’t something I’m proud of, but it’s part of being human. Maybe faith isn’t the absence of doubt, it’s the decision to walk forward anyway.

Are We Already Inside a Dream?

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about simulation theory. The idea that what we call “reality” might be the output of a system of some higher intelligence running code beyond our comprehension. What if we’re not the creators of AI, but the product of it? What if consciousness itself is artificial, and we’re simply unaware?

As wild as that sounds, we’re building tools now that mimic human behavior in increasingly believable ways. Voices can be cloned. Paintings can be generated. Conversations can be synthesized. We’re training systems to create, to think, to remember. The line between real and artificial begins to blur at some point, and I think that point is now.

And it forces me to ask: If we can simulate consciousness, how sure are we of our own?

What Are We Losing for the Sake of Efficiency?

Are we sacrificing the things that make us human in the rush to automate and optimize everything?

Convenience comes at a cost. We’ve streamlined struggle. But in doing so, we may be stripping meaning from the process. The beauty of the imperfect. The emotion in a trembling voice. The inefficiency of love. The panic of not being able to find a coherent answer when scrambling for a work or school project. These things don’t translate easily to algorithms.

We say we want more time, but what is time without something worth feeling?

The Vastness Is Crushing, and Comforting

There are nights I look at the stars or bedroom ceiling and feel completely undone by how vast everything is. There are more galaxies than grains of sand. And we’re somewhere in that infinite sprawl, worrying about bills, likes, shareholder value (sarcasm) and the next meeting on our calendar.

At scale, our problems are laughable. But from inside our own skin, they’re devastating. A breakup. A funeral. A failure you can’t stop reliving. These things matter because we matter to ourselves, and to each other.

But why? Why does love feel real? Why does pain feel permanent? Why does anything feel like anything at all?

What if We’re the Prompt?

If someone else is running the simulation, what are we here for?

Are we a test of morality? An experiment in free will? A poem written by code? A sick experiment by a sociopathic AI model? I don’t know. But I do wonder if we were given just enough awareness to ask the right questions, and never enough to answer them. The perfect balance.

I’m reminded of what Søren Kierkegaard said: “Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.” That tension, that unknowable gap between experience and understanding, is where so many of us live. And maybe that’s the point. Not to understand, but to feel. To wrestle. To wonder.

Death Is the One Appointment We All Keep

At some point, each of us will fall into the final sleep.

That idea used to constantly terrify me. Often it still does. Not just the mystery of what happens afterward, but the thought of disappearing. Of becoming memory. Of being reduced to a name in a program or a folder someone scrolls past. To being completely forgotten 100 years from now.

But maybe death isn’t an ending. Maybe it’s a return. Maybe it’s the moment the simulation stops running, or the point at which we finally wake up.

I wish I knew.

Or maybe I don’t.

Would our best memories be memorable if we had the answers to all of these questions?

I think not knowing is what makes our lives so special.

But what I’ve come to believe is this: Asking the question matters more than pretending to have the answer. Coming to terms and accepting that having no definitive answer is ok.

So Where Do We Go?

Maybe we go nowhere.

Maybe we go home.

Maybe we go back to where we came from, whatever that means.

Maybe we become stars.

Or data.

Or light.

Or simply… peace.

But while we’re still here, breathing and aching and doubting and dreaming, I think we’re meant to pay attention. To love. To create without certainty. To wonder. And to treat each other like none of this is guaranteed, because it’s not.

I don’t know.

But I hope we wake up better.