Days rush past; there is little time to dwell near the keyboard and ponder words. I wish this were not the case. My mind a whirl with thoughts and feelings, it longs for typekeys to make it all make sense again. We react differently to the tidal waves: some long for activity without break; I need that moment of silent solitude to regroup, put into words, let the silence wash it all away.
He says he believes in my writing that story; for a second, I am convinced, gladly accepting the confirmation before self-doubt and "reality" strike back. We are all lost, trembling in our insecurities, our disappointments of what this life turned into. I scramble for coherence, even now, even here. People put new decades in front of the zero, and some do not mind. They are at the righ step in the maze. I can't decide if I envy them.
The point is, if I were to give up, on the dream, the life, the city, where would I go when I cannot go back here? There is no place for me here. Rustling trees whisper at me that I will pine for them hopelessly. A million beautiful people pass me, and I know our eyes will never meet. The air is cold as I walk quickly to the tram; I stare straight into the light and hope for a warming ray. Perhaps, tomorrow, the answer will reveal itself. Perhaps, tomorrow, all will not be lost.
Unsatisfied, I close the lid to my laptop, tie up the leathered straps on my journal, turn off the lights. Too much left to say, I twist and turn in my borrowed bed. Perhaps, tomorrow, this too shall pass.
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