To be detached is to die every damn day. To watch yesterday burn in the rearview mirror like a cheap motel on fire.
Heartbreak? Burn it.
Victory? Burn it.
Humiliation, applause, betrayals, love letters, bank balances? Burn them all.
When you wake up, you’re a new animal, a blank canvas, a warrior reborn. Nothing sticks to you. You’re fluid, wild, free. You aren’t the corpse of yesterday’s man dragging old regrets and stale glories behind him.
You step into the day like a mad poet, like a drunk pirate, like a silent monk with a blade under the robe — you do whatever the fuck you want, and you answer to no one but the king behind your eyes.
That’s when life becomes an adventure, not a sentence. That’s when you stop living like a frightened accountant tallying up losses and start roaring through existence like a thunderstorm on two legs.
Every day a funeral.
Every day a birth.
Every day yours.