There’s a shared balcony in my building where I smoke in the evenings. Sometimes, I imagine myself telling my feelings to someone, my worries about leaving and restarting. ‘Like, I just feel like I’m floating around with no real purpose nor direction. But I can’t stop either because I would feel more hopeless, so the solution is to continue pushing forward, somewhere, anywhere. But everyone else seems to have decelerated, people seem to have been able to find what makes them happy. I still have no fucking idea. I don’t have a place that I can call home nor a place to return to. How do you deal with it?’
The few lights in the alley down in the street are feeble and too weak to light up the streets, let alone our faces. Their features are lit through their cigarette tips, when they take a particular long drag. There’s a silence because there’s no real answer.
‘You just get used to it.’
I never saw them sad, but just now a flicker in their eyes seems to hint to a certain melancholy. I never really saw them in any manner because I don’t actually know this figure of my imagination bar from the times I am alone and creative enough. But in the imaginary, they are a cheerful and positive person – a reflection of what I wish I were, or I wish I had beside me.
‘I don’t want to be alone’, I’d blurt out pathetically. ‘It’s pathetic, I know, but I want someone to stay with me, forever. I never thought I wanted this, but then I realised no one really knows who I am. I convinced everyone I am something else and I skipped town or pushed away those who could see past my farce. Is there something inherently broken about me? No, sorry, this is stupid, I don’t believe it – rationally – I mean, there’s no–‘
The warm of their hand on mine would be enough to keep me connected. The power of people is often underrated in my representation of the world. My eyes swell up.
‘It’s going to be okay.‘ I think, looking at the darkness below.