Travelling has been good. Good for me, and good for everyone in general. Because let's all be honest about this; aside from when I'm fixing things, there's really no reason for me to be around. Probably better for me to be away as it stands. Probably.
So far, I've seen a few people. Elaine was kind enough to have me in her company a while ago, and Rachael and I just met up, though that was more by chance than anything. It's... nice, in a way. Trying to be honest with everyone else and myself. It hurts, but it's kind of just a dull ache in your chest sometimes, reminding you that there's nothing there no matter how much you try-
(I'm sorry, Elaine. I'm not around enough to be any sort of help. I want to help. I want to help people like Rachael more and support my team more and be in control more. Maybe I just have to try harder.)
Aside from that, I've just been... wandering, you know? Making my way down street after street, sometimes falling asleep and waking up
(And when it's nobody but me, I remember what started all this; Christmas Eve, Writer at my shoulder, and... the window, it had a circle of frost. It was... snowing, showers of glass shards under the street lamps, shining. It was quiet, silent, aside from the kids playing on the street while their parents whispered harshly to get back inside. (Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.) Writer's breath on my ear. He was cold, he was always so cold, like he's already dead; but there, out there, it looked so warm...)
Tonight it's a little bar; the jazz helps me think sometimes. Reminds me of my first days by myself, discovering music. She's sad, the singer. You can see it, hear it. But her voice carries into forever. You close your eyes to lose yourself and before you know it, you're not even anything anymore. It's just the music. You're nothing, you've never been anything. You're allowed to forget for a while.
Sometimes when you come back, you feel just a little lighter. Sometimes,though, it's lonely when you're among people, too.
(I keep on showing up at the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time. Sometimes I turn up places that I don't want to be at all. Don't want to remember. Is this... supposed to be some kind of test? Am I supposed to realize something, accomplish something? I don't know. My own footsteps don't give me any sort of answers. I'm tired of tests. I'm... so, so tired of tests, people peering at me like I'm some sort of thing to be studied. Red eyes, green eyes. I'm me. Is that enough? Some nights I wake up and feel someone else leaving me and the stars laugh at me. Some nights, I just look up and wonder where Matt is. Where the dead are now. On those nights, the stars cry.)
I still feel like I'm missing something, though. Something, and I don't know what it is, keeps slipping through my hands, flowing like water then shattering like glass when it hits the ground. I... sometimes, it feels like I'm so close, and then something interrupts it and it's gone again. Nightingales, flying away just before brushing your fingertips. Playing, toying with you. Dealing in secrets and lies. But that's more like me, right? Or the way I used to be. I want to do better, I think.
I'm not sure if I'm coming home right away. I still... want to see some people, see and do some things. Keep thinking. Trying to decide things for myself. Decide who I want to be. Maybe there's a lot more to this than I realize. But I'm feeling better, really, I swear. I'll still keep checking in, August. Be safe.
(The singer and Rachael and Elaine and everyone else I meet have something in common. Maybe we're all more alike than we think. Maybe we just have to stop looking to find what we're looking for.)