Dear ghost,
It's the day I was born. It's the day my mother walked in the rain and nobody let them in because it was bad omen to let a pregnant women in a house. More so when the baby is being born. It was under that dead big tree I was born. It wasn't dead back then.
I must feel special and be loved and glad. Glad of what I know not of but I must be for the light and to my dearest mother that love me best.
Not too excited. Not too hasty. Neatly and perfectly that's what I am suppose to be. But all of my maniac hides inside me.
Wish me merry birthday. Say I deserve it for I know not whether I really am.
Yours and yours forevermore