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Birkenau Blues ©️

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It was a cold, foggy night on Monte Sano. The fog clung to the windows like breath on glass. In the corner, the furnace glowed with its steady orange pulse, an eye in the dark. I was already circling the old steps—fear and OCD, the endless dance, the ritual I could neither master nor escape.

Then the scent arrived.

Not jasmine. Never jasmine. Heavier. Acrid. Musk with the thickness of smoke. It came quiet, inexorable, like gas through a vent. One breath was enough. It stung. It burned. It claimed.

And behind it—her. The little ghost girl. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A child’s face wearing Satan’s mask. She looked at me, and what filled her gaze was not mercy, not softness. It was hate. It was revilement sharpened to an edge.

She despised me. Every inch of me. She despised my weakness, my illusions, the soft skin of my mind. She killed me in that hatred, cut me down again and again, driving me back to the very end of the line, the last place in time itself. Her cruelty was absolute.

And yet—beneath it, through it—it was love. Fierce, merciless, unrelenting love. She gave me not affection, but annihilation. She stripped me until nothing remained but bone and obedience. She hated me into strength. She reviled me into endurance.

That was her gift. Auschwitz drawn across my world, the gas chamber superimposed over my cottage. The scent that killed me was the scent of poison. What looked like hatred was devotion in its purest, most brutal form. What felt like destruction was her way of rebuilding me for what was to come.

That was her gift. The cruelty. The death rattle. The scent that suffocated like gas. The hatred that burned hotter than fire. It was love, absolute and merciless. The kind of love that destroys so it can begin again.

Ground zero. The rarest stone. Black, hard, unbreakable. Eternal.

From the Top ©️

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I stepped out barefoot, not as a man looking for something, but as something the night had called home. No phone, no plans, no hour marked for return. The fire I carried in my pocket wasn’t just smoke or leaf—it was a key. Just called Fire, because that’s what it was. Fire that burned slow and true, handed down like a family heirloom no one wanted to admit existed. A rite, not a habit.

The breeze was cool, but not indifferent. It wrapped around my shoulders like an old friend who hadn’t forgotten a thing. The moon, swollen and full, hung above like it had come just to watch. And maybe it had. That night didn’t owe me a future, and I didn’t ask for one. The morning might never come. Fine. Even finer. I had no debts to pay. I’d peeled the day off like a skin I didn’t need anymore.

I walked until the ground folded gently, a small place where the earth had let its guard down. I sat. Struck the match. Fire kissed fire, and I brought it to my lips. It didn’t hit hard. It opened. Like a chapel door creaking into a room I’d already dreamed. The smoke rose slow, curling like scripture into the air.

The shadows had already begun their work. They didn’t rush. They weren’t thrown—they grew, silently, with dignity. Long and knowing, like they’d watched generations rise and fall under this same moon, in this same hush. They weren’t dangerous. They were truthful. And they moved with the fog that followed—a slow, creeping breath that climbed from the ground like it had been hiding in the soil all day, waiting for the right hour to rise.

The nightbirds cried. One sharp, like a warning shot fired into a dream. Another low, deep, from the gut of the earth. Not a song. A claim. They marked the time, not in minutes, but in thresholds passed. They said, You’ve entered it now. No going back.

And I felt it.

The high didn’t come like thunder. It came like tide—slow and inevitable. A hum in the fingertips, a heat crawling up the spine. The world didn’t spin. It stretched. My thoughts didn’t think. They opened. As if the skull wasn’t a bone cage, but a cathedral now, with high windows and soft echoes. Breath thickened. Time sagged.

Reality blurred. But not in fear.

In freedom.

Because that was the night. Not sleep. Not escape. Freedom. From clocks. From names. From the lie of linear time. The fog tried to hide the world, and I let it. I didn’t need the world anymore. I was in the kingdom of shadows, breath, breeze, and Fire. No laws. No debts. No sunrise required.

And in that moment, the only truth that mattered was this:

I was the night, catching its breath.