I can’t remember the day I born. But I can remember with sharp precision all the days l died a little. All the days you killed me. All the days I killed myself. Even if I struggle to reborn, I will do it. Stronger. Sometimes tired. Sometimes bored. Sometimes sad. Sometimes empty. Sometimes painful. Sometimes lost. But I want to be rescued. And then I’ll be stronger. 

My day is a constant struggle to stay awake. I can’t explain why, but sometimes it’s hard to keep my eyes open. It’s hard to keep my attention on. I’m always the first saying good morning. Maybe not on Thursdays.

I’m almost always the first saying good night. My night is a constant struggle to fall asleep.  My bed is my sanctuary. I don’t care about the lonely nights, the empty pillow or the dog’s barking.

My bed is my name. Why should you even know my name, if I don’t know yours. You’re a number. You’re a couple of meaningless sentences. You are a reflex in my two mirrors. It disappears when I fall asleep. It disappears when the lights shut down. It disappears. My bed is my home. 

I’m not a man of a small town striving for fame, as I’m not a toy of your amusement. I’m not defined by the souls that fall in my bed. Once or twice. Or by those that want to fall. Make this clear in your mind: this is for my pleasure and never for your entertainment.