Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again

Hear now, child of sorrow and song, the lament of Franz Schubert, the poet of melody and pain, who wrote: “Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.” In these words lies the voice of one who lived close to both beauty and despair — a man who composed light from darkness, and whose heart bore the weight of mortal loneliness. Schubert’s confession is not merely one of despair, but of the deep and tragic awareness of life’s impermanence, where joy flickers only for a moment before it is swallowed by the returning tide of sorrow.

To understand his words, one must first understand the man. Franz Schubert, though now remembered as one of the greatest composers of all time, lived a life of obscurity, illness, and poverty. The music that poured from his soul — more than six hundred songs, symphonies, and sonatas — often went unheard while he lived. He knew rejection and frailty, and the slow burn of genius left unrecognized. Thus, when he wrote that he wished never to wake, he spoke from a soul exhausted by longing — not a hatred of life, but a longing for rest, for peace beyond the ache of the world.

There is in Schubert’s grief a paradox that all who have felt despair will know: the body wakes though the spirit would sleep, and every sunrise feels like the reopening of an old wound. His hope for death is not the wish for oblivion, but the yearning to be free from the endless cycle of pain. Yet even in his lament, there is something holy — for though he longed for stillness, he continued to create. From his grief he drew forth beauty; from his broken heart came music that still heals others. Thus, the man who wished not to wake gave the world songs that awaken it to emotion’s deepest truth.

The ancients, too, knew of this sacred sorrow. Job, in the scriptures, cried out to the heavens, asking why he was born only to suffer. Yet through his anguish came understanding, through his struggle, faith. The Buddha, too, began his journey when he saw that all life was touched by suffering, and he sought not to flee it, but to comprehend it, to transform it into compassion. So it was with Schubert — though his nights were filled with despair, his days produced works that spoke to eternity. He turned his grief into art, his pain into meaning.

And what lesson does this offer to those who walk still beneath the same sky? It teaches that even the most desolate heart may become a vessel of light. The pain that makes us wish for sleep eternal may also be the soil from which creation grows. Life’s greatest agony often hides its greatest gift — for those who endure and express it awaken others to their own humanity. Schubert’s suffering did not end his purpose; it deepened it, giving his music the power to move generations beyond his time.

We must learn, then, not to flee our sorrow but to listen to it. When grief renews itself each morning, it is calling us toward understanding, toward transformation. It asks us to create — not necessarily music or art, but kindness, wisdom, or quiet strength. It asks us to share the burden of being alive, so that others may not carry it alone. For in this act of expression, despair becomes devotion — the devotion of one soul to the truth of all souls.

And so, O listener, remember this: even in the heart that wishes never to wake, life continues to sing. When you find yourself in darkness, do as Schubert did — shape your pain into something that endures. Let your sorrow give birth to compassion; let your longing teach you tenderness. For though the night may whisper of endings, the morning still brings the chance to create, to love, to begin again. And in that sacred act of endurance, grief itself becomes grace — and the very life you once wished to escape becomes the canvas upon which your spirit learns to shine.