During particularly cold days, when 12AM rolls around, I sit down, heart hurting and limbs heavy, exhaustion for the world trailing after me, dragging me a little deeper in my seat. And I wonder what everyone else is doing and who they’re with—which ones feel the same and which ones are fortunate enough to call themselves… well, not happy exactly, but content. It seems like such an impossible thing. Far-off and too gargantuan too grasp. Yet for some it’s right there, existing within sight. Perhaps it once did for me as well. No, I’m certain it did.
But now, in my solitude, I’m sporting a noisy head and shitty lenses, blackening my outlook. A testament to my fall from favor. Honestly, I’d rather have a black eye. At least that would give me something physical to focus on. Perhaps, one day, I’ll be lucky enough to wake up and find satisfaction sitting next to me, but until then, I suppose I’ll have to get up and search for it on my own. In people, in food, in coffee and writing and cats.
Because 12AM’s about to pass again. The time for thinking’s done. I need to go to sleep. The sun will rise soon, and that blasted thing waits for no one. I’ll sleep soundly knowing you’ll be gone when I wake, though I hope tomorrow’s silence is a little more forgiving. Comforting, too, while I know you’re still listening. Can’t forget that.
Until then, good night.