In the darkness of the dawn.

I was born, seventeen years ago, in a white room. I came out of my mother's womb fully naked, wet in blood. I was born without speech, except for some wails that I have no idea of what it was or what it was for. I was born without the proper thinking, careless, carefree. I was born, taken out from in between my mother's legs, a time of great pain.

Now I am seventeen, and no matter how bright things appear, darkness surrounds me. Now I am fully clothed, barely wet. Now I can speak three or four languages, always in the best attempt to understand what I was listening or saying. Now I can ponder, though anxious, insecure. Now I'm searching what was between one's legs, a time of great pleasure.