I can’t believe I’m back within these four walls. I’d done the thing. I got out. I saw the light. And somehow, on my own volition, I’m right back where I started.

A true romantic, I try to find the sentimental of being trapped within these four walls. Look for spots in the endless grey that spark nostalgia. But you need good times for nostalgia. Or times at all for that matter.

It’s not like I stared at these four walls the entire time I was down here. I had my phone. I scrolled and clicked the day away as anyone else would, praying that my time would go by and the spectre outside would just move on.

Maybe I hop out of here, let him catch me. Hiding again feels more unbearable than the act of being caught. It’s just the unknown from this point on. The point beyond the endless grey where facing reality means living with however you show up.

At least this endless grey had been a springboard for imagination. You find time to contemplate complicated things when the world around you is monotone. And maybe contemplating complicated things is all this world is about. Or all my world is about.

Sometimes I wonder if I was meant for the world. If I was, I surely wouldn’t be back here, especially on my own volition. But the inadvertent proof in the pudding is that I’m scared of being who I am. Or better yet who I could be. I’ve spent so much time loving who I am, maybe as a means to save myself from who I could become at my full potential.

It’s better to live as a boundless idea rather than a carcus of reality, and thus I shall enjoy my home here in the endless grey, where I belong.