Isn't it weird that you always wake up as yourself?
You can try to escape the story of your life, but in truth, you can't. It already happened, and there isn't a thing we can do about it. A heart broke, and nothing was ever the same. I shall know you when we are both old and maybe wise. And I know you now, your story and the journey you had to take to intertwine with mine. It isn't the one I would have chosen at the beginning, yet I'll take it. Because it's my story, only mine. And it's not over, there's still time, so much time.
Late at night visited by dread and shame, I lie in bed and think of somebody else's life. I imagine the love they're getting, and the relief that comes from being really known, the private pleasures they share, the fun they have, and the pressures they don't. I imagine how fulfilled they are, their sense of importance, how rich their life is. And in these moments I feel empty and wanting. Then other nights, I think of those who seem even more lost than me. I imagine all the love they do not have. I see the passion that's missing, the friends they don't know, and the awful reality that crushes them. In those moments I realise how much I have and how much I can give.
