My life is a constant back-and-forth between big cities and small ones. In the big cities, I let go, surrendering to everything I can find: vices, excesses, adrenaline. There’s no brake. In those moments, the city becomes the perfect stage for me to lose myself, to search for anything that will numb the internal void I carry with me. But when the bomb explodes and there’s nothing left but wear and tear, I go to a quieter, smaller place where I try to recover.

It’s a cycle that repeats, an escape from who I am, a desperate attempt to find peace in places where calm seems possible. But the reality is there’s no rest. It’s hard to disconnect from the energy that consumes me in the big cities. Recovery is never what I expect, because the addiction to those moments of euphoria is always there, ready to pull me back in. Unless depression finishes me off first.