For more than twenty years I’ve died and born. That dance between birth and death started when I took in my first breath. Since then I’ve tried to avoid that cycle and been terrified of it, but it left me no space of escape. Not while I was awake, not even while I was dreaming.
I dreamt of falling and when I woke up I continued to fall further. Into the endless torture of infinite anxiety, where each second was stretched out and never ending. I was chased by my demons until I chose to become the hunter of them instead.
I fell into the wound. Deliberately. Hurting. Crying. Getting stabbed all over my body. Chasing down each of my scars. Hunting them with a sick pleasure. Deliriously. Contracting as if it were a labour. Forgetting to breathe cause the intensity of the wound would make me faint. Floating inside my entire body. Like waves of a stormy sea. Ever changing and ever shifting from one place to another.
I’ve entered to my personal hell. The fire is real although unseen. But for once I’m not running. Not because I’m brave but because I’m tired. I’m walking contently towards my own death. Befriending it. I am dead to myself.

W h y  a m  I  s t i l l  b r e a t h i n g ?


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