I find myself adrift in the depths of despair, ensnared in a space as confining as mere pores. I raise my voice to the heavens, calling out to my God.

The vastness of the universe envelops me, inundating my mind with a cacophony of inquiries that reverberate in the chasms of my soul. Yet, I inevitably return to surrender my fate once more.

Day by day, I don my smile as one would wear a watch upon the wrist, that façade concealing a storm of sorrow beneath. I track the passage of time while mourning my afflictions.

My pen, heavy with melancholy, glides with a sluggish grace, compelled to articulate the turmoil churning within. Exhausted and aged, it crumbles with every word I inscribe, mirroring the slow decay of my spirit.

"Leave me be," it implores in a hoarse whisper, scratching against the surface of the page. As the voices of those around me beseech me to heal their wounds and erase their scars, I confront them as I confront him, adorned in the same guise: that deceptive smile. Yet, no one perceives the arrows that pierce my back.

How can they, when I refuse to turn around, ignoring the pleas of those who call out to me?

The audience of lovers is vast, isn’t it not? The shouts of affection and reverence swell, only to soften and choke as circumstances dictate. But when my soul collapses in exhaustion, silence descends, and the air becomes thick with emptiness.

The mighty, ever-smiling ego has vanished, replaced by a weary human form.

Does this ego not merit a "warrior's rest" for two days, or even just two hours? Or does wisdom dictate the merciful end of the weary horse?

I am drawn to the notion of halves: fragmented souls, forsaken opportunities, and narratives that linger in the shadows of incompletion. Nothing ever truly finds its conclusion, save for the tightening in my chest that resembles an unquenchable spring.

I retreat into the solitude of night within the cavern of my thoughts, distancing myself from the trivialities of the world. I escape the heresy of hollow conversations and the deceit of false friendships. I exist among my papers and plans, not emerging until sleep claims me. I awaken the following day, consumed by the chaos of writing, oblivious to the clamor of exhaustion. I return to don the cloak of the superhero, grasp the staff of the sage, and strip away my identity and the entirety of my being. Yet, I find solace in my true self and pose the question: Who am I?

It turns to me, gazing into my depths with unwavering intensity, and answers:

I am a being in search of an answer. Neither a woman pursuing the latest trends nor a man seeking the finest products for grooming. I am a soul questioning the meaning of life, plunging into the depths of significance. The simplicity of the surface disturbs me. I am an infinite emotional state without boundaries. I am a universe, I am time, I am curiosity.

Thousands of boxes in the labyrinth of my mind burst open simultaneously, igniting a race that spans twenty-four hours. Images flash at the speed of light faces and events from the past, tasks I must confront in the present, and a thousand and twenty questions from the future.

I am a human more intricate than the confines of my body. My spirit is a phoenix, ensnared between the bars of this mortal existence. A phoenix that dies and is reborn between one question and another, lingering between the walls of two worlds. For the time has not yet come for it to soar through the heavens, nor does the dust of the earth expand to accommodate its wings.

I gaze at my own reflection after its words and murmur to it with weary eyes: Our savior from the clamor of our fullness has arrived; it is this sleep, the harbinger of peace. Let us surrender to the embrace of the unconscious, where we may revel in the silent void.