It was Sunday

I woke up with a self-diagnosed illness called fatigue.

I do a half turn on my back, cigarette in hand, dropping the butts on the floor. I suggest to the pretty girl at the café, with a casual, steady glance, pretending not to miss you and wanting you every three or four days.

My fingers keep typing on a keyboard that desperately needs cleaning. Anyone else would tell me it's Sunday, but my mind has already switched off the workweek.

When I get home, I think about the object I chose for my enjoyment, even though the battery has been dead for a while; I haven't even used it for three days since I bought it. Sexuality and self-exploration are rituals I don't want to let fall into decline.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed for my gamble and the investment of my time. I've always dared to dream big and believe I'm invincible. I develop a thousand projects in my head and jot them down in my phone's notes; I go to bed thinking, "I hope I leave my mark."

I wake up thinking about everything I have to do. Sick with exhaustion, I recharge by being an entity in society.

Every now and then I wonder if everyone works like this or if I'm the only individual with some kind of rechargeable battery.

The girl greets me casually and without any expression, as if we have fewer and fewer traces of spontaneity. I'm bored by her lack of friendliness.

I'm sitting on my bed and I'm not going anywhere; at another time I would have dissociated and said it's a waste of time.

I respond with limited messages to two or three friends; I let the others understand my limited availability.

I regain the luxury of breathing in the tiredness that hides between my legs.

I'm not offering promotional hairstyles today.

I might like fuchsia-colored kisses a little.

Photography by Nicholas Dominguez Gallegos