I drive through the night city and I realize just how screwed up I let everything get. I met a friend today, the one person in this foreign city who knows me for more than just a few months. 15 years is how far back we go. I sat around in his apartment and realized just how tired I am. Sadness always sneaks up on me, I never expect it. It can come at any given moment, it just bursts in and suddenly everything is dark. I felt like crying out loud that I need help. That I just need someone to tell me that I don't have to be strong all the time. That they will take care of me, and I can sleep in peace just for one night. But I've always had to be strong. The past five years I spent in foreign cities. Two in each, always starting over, always learning more about strength. Never allowing myself to give up, even for a little while. I'm tired and I need help. But there's no one to reach out to. Because I've been taught to be strong, and strength is the ultimate gift.
I look at my hands and they reveal the true story. That I haven't been strong at all, that I've fallen back into the same routine. They reveal too much, the scars on my hands. They are the whole story.
I made a wish at 11:11, my idea of beauty, and my idea of love.
Tomorrow the sun will rise again, tomorrow I'll have to pretend all over again.