I am awake. Again.
The moon hangs over the city like a pale witness, and down in the streets the lamps wander. They do not light the way – they only drift. Like me.
It is just another nightmare. But not the kind that wakes you drenched in sweat, grateful it was only a dream. This is another kind. Silent. Persistent. The kind that wears the mask of wakefulness, but is only another form of sleep – sleep without rest.
I sit by the window and look down. The city does not see me. Yet I feel its gaze. A courtroom without walls. Jurors without names. And still, they judge.
For daring to live.
Daring to love.
For daring to be.
The trial of morning – that is insomnia. And the sly guest who settles in the mind and whispers: “Give up. Confess. Apologize for who you are.”
But I will not.
I gather courage.
And I say: “I deny everything.”
Not because I lie. But because the truth they want to hear is not mine.
I wear a rose. Striking. Red. Not because I wish to provoke. But because it is mine.
And dreams? Yes, I have them. And sometimes I wander. To a scent, a touch, a memory. But that does not make me guilty. That makes me alive.
What is half, I want whole.
What is forbidden, I want to sing aloud.
And for that, they judge me now.
But I will not confess.
Not to the guilt they assign me.
I confess only to this: that I am.
That I breathe.
I love.
That I am not afraid to rise from the ashes.
And if they condemn me for that?
Let them.
I am no longer afraid.
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