The speaker has been up all night and can't switch off. Video games and anime were meant to quiet their mind, but the birds are already singing, which tells us morning is close and sleep never came. The night, they say, "has not been kind."
There's an irony at the center of the poem. The speaker seems to love the dark, calling themselves a "nyctophilliac," and hoped it would bring clarity or a sense of freedom. Instead they can't see anything, and their thoughts keep running. The image of eyes "the weight of lead" captures how exhausted they are, even though sleep still won't arrive.
The mood is tired, restless, and a little wistful. The closing questions, whether someone who loves darkness can love anything else, and whether an insomniac can find bliss, sound less like real inquiries and more like a plea. The speaker doubts their own sanity and hopes for some peace but doesn't find it here.