Every day I have to stand firm and strong. At night, I walk the streets of my childhood, and during the day, I lie in the bed of my childhood. I think it’s funny that they call it Mother Earth, like, why would there be gender?

I wake up with my feet deeply rooted in wet soil and a cigarette in my mouth because, you know, every night is a nightmare. My dad holds my hand sometimes. He is sad. He sees the pain and sorrow in the bags under my eyes and in the hue of my skin.

It’s six o’clock on a Sunday morning, and everything continues with the same ennui. Everyone’s spiritual and meaningful until they actually have to face the reality of life. Life might not be fair, but I can be. I want it to be equal. I want it to be meaningful for every one of us.

Like this suffering we endure, this meaningless, derived existence of filth and fast pleasure - this life is not the Eden they talk about in church. The dopamine pathways connecting pleasure with meaninglessness.

As I said, it’s six o’clock on a Sunday morning, and I can’t sleep anymore. It’s the feverish pain that woke me up. The tummy-clenching hand of hate, the burning-hot sensation at the base of my skull.