Monologue on a wooden bench
I once slept on a wooden bench in a city that later became my home town. Back then, it already must have felt like a place I could run to whenever I felt too lonely to be home somewhere. A place that would embrace me regardless.
But before my body wanders off like that, usually my mind does. Since it happens for as long as I can remember, I've tried my best to understand it. I've tested my logic, found some irrational thoughts I couldn't argue, loads of fear and a few rash decisions like quitting something I might have liked or running from anything but myself. To be honest, I think there's this one way road on which I seem to end up every time I go off course. It's a -heading towards the point of no return- kind of road, or for that matter, a -let's run off to a bench at night- one.
So what happened? How did I get there? I can hardly think about it without my chest starting to ache but I don't want to never think about it again either. Some things are too important to forget, especial