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Some days are worse than others.

Some days,

Are just the same.

I woke up, as usual, at 6 in the morning sharp. Not one second later.

I got up, made my bed, brushed my teeth, went to the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee; black, two spoons of sugar. Then I walked to the couch, sat down, turned on the news while drinking that hot cup of coffee.

The heat of it burned my tongue, but that is not an unfamiliar sensation. I felt my tears prickling and my hands shaking. But I kept drinking. I kept drinking and drinking and drinking until the whole cup was drained and nothing but a pinch of coffee ground remained.

I could hear the news reporter speaking in the background. Her name was Wendy Tessa. She was a brunette with dark brown eyes and smooth dark skin. She spoke in a calm smooth voice but had trouble pronouncing the letter R from time to time. She reported: "Last night, at 8 pm, a body of a homeless woman was found behind the dumpster of our town's infamous club, 'Roaches and Peanuts.' The owner of the club, Zachariah Reads was the one who found her. He denied having any association with her, only stated that he saw her from time to time, lying in that same alley. The police suspected that she died due to natural causes, and no further investigation occurred.

"Behind all the smile, I could see her pain through her dark eyes. I could see the fear she felt, for whatever reason. Her male co-host, Alexander Gnash, started talking and I turned the TV off. The headline text on the screen before it was turned off read: "Waterpark Suspected To Be Money Laundering Scheme."I sat on the couch for a while, staring at the now almost empty cup of coffee. There was 58 speck of coffee ground in there. I counted times after times and I knew I made no mistake. I then got up, cleaned the cup, and walked into my bedroom again.

I lay down on the made bed and close my eyes, exhaustion crashed into me for seemingly no reason at all. I recounted all the memories of the past, and I recalled them clearly. Because the past, for me, was the present, and the future also.

I stared at the white ceiling above my bed, where my upstairs neighbour dragged their furniture around and produced that sort of screeching noise for 32 seconds, 28 seconds of silence would follow before it continued for 8 minutes and 37 seconds more.

Then I would sit up and make my way to my desk. I would sit down onto the wooden chair and grab my pen. I would open my notebook and write down these exact words: "Today will hopefully be an uneventful day." Followed by an essay on the late state capitalism.

I would write for 1 hour and 58 minutes and put my pen down. Then I would feel an itch on my left hand. Not the normal sort that would go away after a good scratching, but the one that you feel deep under your skin. The sort of itch that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and bute at it until it goes away.

It would start from my left hand, then travel up my forearm, striding up along my shoulder, up to my neck, into my head and down my chest, before it spreading along all over my body, making every cell in my body vibrate and causing tingling sensation all over.

It would itch everywhere, and I would strip myself down until I was naked. My body would shiver against the cold air but I would not care. I would lie down onto the bed and scratching my own skin. My short nails would scrap the expanse of epidermis over and over anywhere and everywhere they could reach. But the itch would not go away. In fact, it seemed to get worse and worse.

And what could you do in that situation? Nothing. Nothing but keep scratching. I would scratch my skin until it bleeds. Until I could feel the rawness of skin and the sharp pain of torn skin. And I will keep going. Because the itch is deep inside my body. And it will bot go away. It will not go away until I follow my instinct to scratch it - to satisfy the raw urge to stop the irritation located deep inside my bones.

But it would not stop. I counted the seconds. I would attempt to stop the irritation for 2 hours, 6 minutes and 21 seconds before I gave up. I would lie still, breathing heavily, almost panting with tears, snot and blood ran down my face. My body would feel colder and colder still, not only from the cold air but also from the cool blood. The itch would still be there. I gave up. My body couldn't go on from the pain and exhaustion of the attempt to soothe the pain of unsatisfied attempt. I couldn't possibly go on. I would lie still, close my eyes and feel all the pain from every nerve in my body. I would feel pain everywhere. Everything would hurt. And I would close my eyes. Time would pass and I would feel numb against the constant pain until my body decided that it was time for me to rest.

Only to wake up at 6 o'clock 0 seconds again.

The itch disappears. And my day started again.

Some days are like the other.

Except it is the same day.

And I only hope the itch will not return today.