Sometimes, I wish I were a mere character in a book. That I'd wake up to a better day. A better life. I’m playing a character, and this isn’t my life. I wanted my reality to be fiction.
Some days, I don’t feel like waking up. I want to stay in bed and cry. Perhaps, that’s all I’m capable of doing these days. I think of alternate realities — of the things I could be doing. There’s very little to do these days. I put work aside; I put life aside; I breathe. I take one day at a time. The urge to run away from everything still remains.
Nothing makes sense anymore. For the longest time, nothing ever did.