My day started well. For the first time since the beginning of my exile, I woke up without those adrenaline rushes that force me to stand up and find a way to stop its production. “My damn nervous system,” I think, while I direct my glance to the newspaper on the arm of my bed. Usually, at this time, I flip it, looking for another crossword puzzle.

If I focus on the definitions, I can thoroughly look away from my thoughts. I can visualize objects, actors, places, verbs that appear crossing and creating new words. I think I have completed twenty up to now; often, I use the help of the Internet (you can find everything online, I have lived in this world for a long time, but it still surprises me), or my mom’s help. She’s a great expert, but this time I have to be healthy and alert because the fact of not being capable of doing it alone makes me feel weak, and it increases my fear.

After breakfast, since I am optimistic, I decide to take a look out of boundaries with my smartphone: I start with the home banking to make sure everything is okay. A few months ago, I should have taken advantage of the lockdown and started investing some savings in stocks.

The idea of getting money from an extra-work activity has always been exciting for me: it seems like the money earned is never enough. Inside of me, I feel a strong desire of revenge against those people who, for a boor ego linked to inherited wealth or small-town popularity achieved with a long list of shitty impressions, during my life have made me feel a short, useless piece of meat, with a mediocre story and a trivial predetermined future. That’s why I am pushed to get accreditations to show to the world my worth.

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The stock market, as far as I know, is a strange world made of the news that impact moods.

To be successful, time should be devoted to it. I try to open the dashboard of my bank, and immediately I feel like someone grabs me around the neck, telling me that I am exaggerating, like an alarm. I close the doors of the overwhelming chaos right away, and I devote time to what my psychoanalyst and myself define as “the Olympic sport of the moment”: The telephone throw. It consists of switching the phone off and throw it somewhere abruptly.

I am calm, but that feeling of someone grabbing me around the neck doesn’t go away; I think it has to do with the drug that is entering in my blood: the mythical Seropram.