Some days I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep; I lie awake wondering why. And sometimes my muscles twitch, and they won’t stop. One more night and I might die;

my muscles are already preparing.

It only takes me this long. The rain on my windowsill, the words from my French friends — none of it will ease my pain; none of it will unclot the blood in my veins.

Every night I dream of falling in love and climbing trees, like falling in love while climbing trees.

I think a lot about why life is linear. Rain also falls at a certain angle. Surely there has to be someone, somewhere, who knows what is happening to me? But we are the God-chosen ones, the fragile ones, the breakable ones.

Like a riddle with no solution. As a kid, I had no patience. If I didn’t find the solution to any given problem within five minutes, I would explode. Now it might take five lifetimes. Now there might not be a solution.

So what do you do? I watch my muscles twitch, for example. I take a timeout every once in a while, a timeout in the form of chemicals. Opioids like pirates, benzodiazepines like cowboys, cannabinoids like bohos, and psychedelics like animals; they steal your time, they hug you, squeeze you, take you out to dance, take you home to undress. You see, there are a million chemicals in my bloodstream, playing Subway Surfers.

And just like in Subway Surfers, they are bound to fail one day.

I will soothe your pain; give me your tongue to lick.

I’m trying to express it, bending space-time. Just in time, there will be peace. Too many have already had to die; that’s why I try to warp the space around me.

Codeine-filled veins preparing my brain for codeine- filled thoughts. I don’t know why I made myself read

Sartre; dude was a loser, big time. They say there is nothing for you in life, but I’m unfolding my napkin to sneeze, and I cry seeing the little puncture patterns

around the edges.

Resembling nature, I crawl. I’m going backwards along the evolutionary timeline. I’m addicted.

After reading this text, you must be convinced that I’m either depressed or addicted to substances like opiates. But that’s not true. I’m addicted to the idea of being healthy, to the idea of running through forests, of not being alone in a pitch-black room for years to come, to the idea of being able to cry without my body burning and failing afterwards.

I wrote this in another text of mine, but opiates are just an allegory; health is the true privilege. Just like these chemicals surf my bloodstream, my brain fails me again. I’m losing myself. We all exist in relation, but I have slowly become an absolute. There is no reference point for a life in solitude, you see?

On bloody knees, I beg society not to fail me. I beg them not to look away. But who am I to judge your flawless existence of a rising sun and soft thoughts?

Life is truly tender. People are soft by nature.

Fail me, love me, but don’t forget me.

I have been right all along: there is a monster in my closet, and if the darkness prevails for long enough, it will come out.

Save me.