Dressed like a uni-bomber standing in front of the state library smoking a bummed cigarette.
Furthest corner of my little world that I could have let myself imagine. With a red backpack.
Bike ride for the last official last figurative last meaningful time.
Prostrate in my roommate's arms sobbing for the fear and the anguish and the dreams and the pain and the newness and the oldness and the ending and the beginning and and and.
I wanted to say that I did not want to suffer anymore and it ripped my chest into thousands of pieces to have to say it but somehow I managed to simply pour myself another glass of water and lay my cards out on the table.
No one told me that the feeling that follows the incredible lightness is akin to that of being hung high on a wall and made to watch your life's dreams parade down below you. I collapsed down into myself and tried to find a volume for the music that was loud enough to drown out all of the thoughts that came flying at me in the wind on the ride home.
I already knew that numbness lay at the bottom of that bottle of wine so I swam down and pinned it down till it let me sit still.
I knew it was coming to this and I knew this for a while.
This is called suffering and anguish, not sorrow.
It would only be sorrow if I were sorry and I'm not sorry.
But, it is suffering because taking leave of a sizable portion of oneself and leaving it in a little neighbourhood in Berlin is not anyone's idea of a walk to the corner store.