There is something being lost, as each day passes, how the time is nonchalant and the days blur together: alike and dripping of blankness.

And there is no horrifying experiences, how do I wish to feel something- spmething that bad, because I'd rather feel than have nothing worthy of putting my pen to the paper- having nothing to remember.

But this is somehow a loss of myself- I have nothing to define me at this moment, and I am not the girl I used to be, which is wonderful, but I wish that I was wonderful, instead of just boring and floating and a cacophony of memories; like a film that never stops running. 

I want to be something, I want to feel something, I want to be more than this, i want to live, and yet I don't know how because I gave up on being someone a long time ago, and now that I have the chance to be someone, it is terrifying and overwhelming and something I'm certain to lose. 

I remember that it hurt,

Looking at her hurt 

I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer.

At night I fell asleep with visions of myself, dancing and laughing and crying with them.

Three years down the line of being on an endless journey, and my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times.

I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken.

But I didn't really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I'd been living, they asked me why - but there's no use in talking to people who have home.

They have no idea what it's like to seek safety in other people - for home to be wherever you lay your head.

I was always an unusual girl.

My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean...

And if I said I didn't plan for it to turn out this way I'd be lying...

Because I was born to be the other woman.

Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone.

Who had nothing, who wanted everything, with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn't even talk about it, and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.

The more it rains, the easier it is to breathe. 

He and I,

like piano and violin, 

weaving together,

Becoming one song

And every morning I wake to you, floating on clouds.