On my way back home, I sat across a stranger.
Out of the blue, he told me what he missed most : the songs of the birds, revealing in the pale morning. I told him I longed for the night sky, deep and endless, with constellations drifting in darkness – the sky you never see in a crowded city. Here, there is just an abyss that fits the one inside me.
And then I thought about the other things I missed. The comfort of knowing who you are, of having something to believe in. I realised that I have many thing to run away from, but nothing to run to. I am restless, as I am always walking into a deep fog. I wake up too many times at night without knowing where I am. I am searching my body for the scars that define me. My wounds ache from the countless times I tore my stitches apart. I am a funeral home, bruises on my lips, no language to describe them.
I have short moments of recognition. My heart leaps. My hands fade in and out of existance. Reality fades in and out of existance. My voice suddenly cracks. And I’m coming undone. Boneless. Hollow. I’m lost in the fog again and there’s no way out, no way out except to face the ghosts that I hide under the bed before I fall asleep.