Sweet reflexion, killing machine.

That day,
like every morning I stood up refreshed.
Then I roamed around the room, looking for decent clothes to put on.

I stalled a moment to observe the rain tickling my window pane.
I could catch the city's smell from up here,
my old and rusty apartment:
last floor of the highest building on my street.

My version of fresh air, I inhaled.

I took a deep breath to make sure I could catch the smell of coffee,
the smell of garbage,
the smell of cars,
the smell of people,
the smell of love,
of hate,
that familiar smell of insecurity.

In these moments,
These morning duels between me and the world,
I was pretentious enough to consider myself above it all,
Blaming the altitude of my room for that impression of tallness.
But I was like them,
I was them.
And they were me.
As if my window constituted a mirror, a reflecting surface.

Then my arms rushed to the curtains,
closing them
violently.
And I ran to the shower,
trying to wash out my conscience of the reflection I just had.
But it failed.

That night I slept,
alone,
exhausted and melancholic.

The next day,
Like every mornings from now on
I stood up dizzy
And sore.