and it’s on nights like these when hope seems futile, when the air seems heavy and the weight of everything sits on me like I can’t breathe without imploding. when I walked alone in the dark and the warm yellow glow from the street lamps illuminated my every step and I took solace in the little lizard staring at me from its perch on the wall. my movements become sluggish and all of a sudden I seem to lose patience and passion for everything because there’s absolutely nothing I can do about things that are set for failure, and the night air seems sticky with apprehension and my fingers itch to dig into something. to scratch something out with permanence to see actual, solid results.

and it’s on nights like these when I find my thoughts drifting into darker streets, with every doubt clouding my path. when even friends and happy memories seem more like distant street lamps that manage to cast more shadows than bring light. when I find solace in being anonymous in crowds, bearing the curious stares of people who will never know me. on nights like these, the wind blows hot and cold at the same time, and I stare at regrets carved into skin. and all of a sudden, I find myself adding on to a marred canvas and it’s infinitely more comforting and stuffed full of guilt at the same time.

and it’s on nights like these, when I just crawl into bed quietly and end the day with a whimper.