Tomorrow is Wednesday.

A week since I died.

Most humans die once in their lives.

Some die everyday.

Me?

Well, I die every Wednesday, at a specific time and place...

I didn't know it was even possible, until I found myself digging out of the same grave my family "generously" dumped me in---a grave nestled between two dead trees with twisting branches. Ink black claws stretching towards a starless night sky. Like the brush strokes of a painter with trembling hands.

A grave on one of the most cheapest lots available at the Eastwood Cemetery.

I can't blame them, though. Why waste a penny on a dead man, anyway?

Not that I care much about the money. No, I'm not even bothered by the fact that they took 97% of my earnings (while I was still alive) and robbed me the privilege of a decent funeral. No, not at all.

Because when you're no longer alive, "justice" goes into your casket, too.

So, I bet you're "dying" to know: was it suffocating six feet underground?

Maybe.

But not as suffocating as breathing air mixed with the toxicity of a shitty society driven by ambitiousness and power.

Anyway, where was I?

Ah, yes... I can vaguely remember climbing out of my grave, with soil sneaking under my fingernails, as desperately as my rigid body could allow me to. The next thing I know, I was standing beside my own "resting place", glaring at the letters engraved on the poor quality headstone my father probably bought online.

I feel insulted.

They didn't even spell my name right.

"A bunch of bastards," I cursed and proceeded to hoisting myself up the thick branches of those twin trees. I didn't know whether I should the thankful of the numbness in my limbs or terrified of painless attempt.

When I reached the top, I just stayed there.

Contemplated on the things I will no longer be able to do, rather than the things I've already done.

I stayed there and let sadness eat my corpse, like a scavenger devouring forgotten flesh and bones. With fat maggots squirming in rotten kidneys and livers.

Yes, whenever I reach the top...

For a few more days, I just stay there.

Waiting for the breaking point.

The thought of not feeling a damn thing if I accidentally fall and break my neck is a bit reassuring. A bit.

And so I remember just letting go of the world I once called home and allowing gravity embrace the fate of a man who just wasted another week, only to die again and again.

In the same manner.

Same place.

Same time.

What happens next, you ask?

I wake up inside a casket. I realize I'm dead. I crawl out of my grave at night. I climb up the dead trees. Wait a week until I decide to just jump and end my suffering and die...

I wake up inside a casket. I realize I'm dead. I crawl out of my grave at night. I climb up the dead trees. Wait a week until I decide to just jump and end my suffering and die...

I wake up inside a casket. I realize I'm dead. I crawl out of my grave at night. I climb up the dead trees. Wait a week until I decide to just jump and end my suffering and die...

Every Wednesday.

A never-ending carousel ride I just can't seem to leave.

Yes, every fucking Wednesday.

And what happens between Wednesday's?

Nothing.

I just float in my subconsciousness and pity myself, just like what I'm doing right now until the clock strikes midnight and I jumped off this thirty-something-foot tree, again...

It's fun, but it gets old.

Piece of advice?

Please don't die on Wednesday.

Take it from me...

Life is too damn short to waste your time living in a loop, an endless cycle of regrets and misery. No, don't live in a loop---well, unless you want to dig and crawl out of your own grave, like me.

But don't.

Just don't...

Dying every Wednesday isn't nearly as worthwhile as living everyday.

---