Thirty-six whispering years.
They lock the past's door behind me, whilst the 37th year pickaxes the wall in front of me, starts breaking through it to get me going beyond.
The light surrounding me in the 37th year does not change.
What I realized is that the birthday was almost certainly invented by a person in love to celebrate the existence of his beloved one: it was a mother, may be, or a wife, or a husband, it could even be a unrequited lover.
Of course, the birthday is not the product of the mind of a child, who'd be too young to spontaneously associate the one he loves to the exact date on which this very One made his first appearance on earth.
Also, the birthday is certainly not the product of an adult, because the more you grow up the less you want to celebrate your advancement towards your Finish Line - especially when you feel you took part in a race you're unsatisfied with.
The birthday can be just the product of a third person's mind, someone who loves you to the extent of celebrating your existence.
I'm lucky because many people are willing to celebrate me today.
I'm lucky because their happiness coincides with the celebration of the international day against homophobia, which seems to give a deeper meaning to this 5.17, and which means anything to other people.
I am very lucky because if I were a stupid man, today I could even afford the luxury to consider myself hapless. And I'm very happy for not being stupid.