Deep Sunday

I wake up late—so late the sun stings my skin, like embers glowing in my personal desert. I get up and, through a phone screen, I watch the world chase money and clout, as if that cocktail could fill their souls at any cost.

“Dammit,” I mutter. There’s cereal in the pantry, but when I swing the fridge door open, I find a milk carton as empty as most people I’ve met. I guess living helps you dream up a better world.

I sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back down. There is a specific comfort in inhabiting a Sunday, far from the social buzz and the city’s roar. There is no greater delicacy than my own bed, this stillness, and the act of tearing reality apart. It’s as if my very bones grow lighter.

After five minutes scrolling through a blue social network that starts with “F,” I spot a book. Something about a “Rat on Thinner”—or some title like that; like any good human, I barely glance at the cover before diving in. It was the most handcrafted, absurd prose I’d ever seen, yet truly original. It made me travel through pages of environments that were stupid yet entertaining, as sticky as phlegm.

In that moment, I knew I had to grab my phone, move my thumbs, and tap the screen like I was tickling a guitar or a beautiful soul. So, I came here to write. For me, writing isn’t about standing out; it’s about breathing. It grants me the courtesy of a reason to live…

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