Despite every massacre of yourself,
you are still ******* here.
Doesn't that count for anything?

If you're not sure something is right for you anymore, end it.
Leave.
Whether it's a relationship, home, your job or the person you've become —
Just leave.
Nothing leads you down the right path better than missing something,
Or not missing it at all.

In between. That’s what I’ve always been.
In between jobs, in between destinations. In between breaths, heartbreaks — myself and what I want.
Never quite there yet, never too far gone.
Just in between.

That’s the problem with people.
They don’t realize that they exist outside of their own little worlds.
When you broke my heart, did you realize the sound of your voice was already embedded into my memory?
When you kissed her right in front of me, did you know a whole universe collapsed inside of me?

Did you care?

Winter is quiet, but always restless.
Irrevocably cold, and deceitfully burning.
Harsh at times, throwing storms of ice when tempered.
Apologetic, as it stews in silent shame.
Unforgiven, and tolerated.
A season which destroys beauty in order to create a kind of it's own.
Decorated, as if the beauty it created for itself hadn't been enough.

I never liked Winter very much,
but I've come to realize we've got a lot in common.

My whole life I've been lost, and
my whole life they've said, "go home".
I've read enough books and
I've seen more than enough films to know
home isn't always the same place
we retire ourselves to night after night.
So I lay awake -
Is this all there is?

In my dreams, the most beautiful places
in the entire world come alive:
The Pyramids of Egypt,
Grand Canyon,
Even Venice, Italy.
I can taste the adventure,
but I wake into a world with four walls
and no stories to tell.
Is this all there is?

"So travel," they tell me.
"See it all, the big cities and bright lights,
dip your feet in untested waters, go on."
And I've mustered enough courage to
get myself out of bed, to the car
and to brush past all my old friends.
I've got luggage, and a train ticket.
And I've got baggage, and a question:
Is this all there is?

"Board, or go home", the man behind me whines.
"Maybe I'll do both," I mutter,
but I find myself slunk against a wall
waiting for a departed train.
All my life, I've been lost.

Four walls and five words -
and they haunt me every day.
I could travel, I could go home,
but I'd still be lost anyway.
Every inch of the world could be mine,
to touch and to wander.
But what if I had boarded only to find
home was always in these four walls
echoing the same 5 hollow words -
*Is this all there is?

I spent seven days staring at burgundy walls - you always hated the colour I chose.

Day one I tried to cry, to mourn, to breathe. No matter how loud I screamed, you never came back to me.
Day two my throat was raw, and water might have eased me for a moment, but my god there was no cure to the pain of missing you.
Day three I swatted at worried hands and closed my eyes, but I had to keep opening them to make certain the walls weren't really closing in on me.
Day four I whispered my own name a million different times, just trying to find a way I might roll it off my tongue the way you used to.
Day five I forgot the sound of your laughter and I tried so ******* hard to just get across the room, to the phone, maybe if I called you would pick up. Maybe you could just remind me, just once more.
Day six my body burned and I forgot how my front yard looked, but I still couldn't find it in myself to throw my feet over the edge of our - my - bed, and walk outside.
Day seven I still stared at the same four walls, but I noticed how much I loved the burgundy paint, and that I never had to hear your complaints about it again.
Day eight I stood up, despite the aching in my chest and I admired burgundy walls for being a beacon of hope, and of forgiveness, amongst the vast sea of  blame you left me to swim in.

I don't know how many days its been now, but I never did repaint our - my - room.
You're the kind of heartbreak that will always bring  another day one every so often,
But as long as my walls are burgundy, staring at them for seven days will never be too heavy a price for finally freeing myself from you.